


no good reason

by illimerence



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Cullen Rutherford has an anxiety disorder, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-10-29 23:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17817488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illimerence/pseuds/illimerence
Summary: In which Dorian flirts, Cullen is an oblivious walnut, and Bull is, as usual, an All-Around Good Dude.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> brought to you by [that reddit post](https://www.gaystarnews.com/article/straight-guy-worries-hes-homophobic-gay-roommate-ends-falling-love/#gs.XOTY1gZI), the song 'are you in love' by cherry pools, and an ungodly amount of energy drinks. updates sundays nz time (that's saturdays for most of the rest of the world, i think)

 

The clock on his nightstand is mocking him again.

 

It’s 2:42 in the morning. It’s been 2:42 in the morning for what feels like hours. Every time Cullen opens his eyes it’s the same number blinking at him from the darkness. The frustration building in his chest isn’t doing anything to help, and he’s already tried all the ‘helpful’ tricks his therapist gave him: focused breathing and cataloguing his body as it relaxes and imagining himself on a calm beach somewhere far away and all that.

 

He had taken two quetiapine before he went to bed, too, and it worked like it always did. It made him full-body exhausted for about fifteen minutes, he dozed for maybe an hour and a half, and then woke up feeling like his head was stuffed with cotton wool. He had gotten up to get some water and take a leak, stumbling a little because the quetiapine still in his system insisted on his body functioning like a zombie’s, and when he got back to bed his body decided – like it does most nights – that sleeping was not in its current capabilities.

 

That had been an hour and fifteen minutes ago, and now he’s on his front on his bed with the sheets kicked down the bottom of the mattress because all they were doing was tangling uncomfortably around his legs whenever he turned over, and he’s flipped all his pillows so many times that none of them have a cool side anymore, and no matter how much focused fucking breathing he does, his brain refuses to shut up. And his alarm clock is mocking him.

 

The clock ticks over to 2:43. Finally.

 

His therapist told him he’s allowed to get out of bed and actually do something if he finds himself unable to sleep, but he has school in roughly six hours, and that’s still long enough to get a decent amount of sleep before he has to be up. If he gets out of bed now, he’ll be essentially giving up on sleep.

 

2:43. Cullen flips onto his back, stares at the patterns the moon is making on the ceiling through the curtains. He wonders idly if Dorian came home during the hour and a half he was asleep, or if he’s still out. If he’s still out he’s probably not coming home tonight. What time do clubs even close on Thursdays? He hasn’t been out clubbing since – well.

 

(He couldn’t sit still, was the problem – he was overwhelmed and then he wasn’t anymore and that was great, but he was just so antsy all the time, so ready to do things and unable to do enough at the same time, and when he wasn’t up he was about ready to throw himself out of a window. So it wasn’t the plan the first time he took them but at some point along the way he was on the Maker-damned uppers all the time, and what else is there to do at one in the morning when you’re off shift and you’ve got tomorrow off as well and you know you’re not going to get any sleep because the blood in your veins is vibrating with energy and your brain is set at a hundred miles an hour?)

 

Cullen sits up, curling both fists in his hair. Thinking about it won’t help. Thinking about it never helps. Focused breathing. He can do that. He’s good at that.

 

Eventually, he gets out of bed, pulls on a pair of sweatpants, and goes through to the kitchen. He leans heavily on the bench, his head hanging between his shoulders while the jug boils.

 

When his tea is ready, Cullen takes it to the living room, makes a half-assed attempt at piling the cushions on the couch into something comfortable, and turns the television on. He lays there in a half-awake stupor, staring blindly at the screen for fifteen, thirty, forty-five minutes.

 

It’s just past 3:30 when noise outside the apartment jolts him out of his daze. The footsteps don’t get his attention – he notices them in the same way he notices a police siren going off a few blocks away or an airplane flying overhead – but then someone falls against the apartment door and he sits up, suddenly alert.

 

There’s the sound of keys jingling, then a quiet clattering, scraping noise – several failed attempts at getting a key into the lock. Another thud at the door. The sound of keys hitting the floor. Dorian’s muffled voice swearing quietly in Tevene.

 

When Cullen opens the door, Dorian is slumped against the wall, frowning at the keys by his feet. He looks up at Cullen and blinks in surprise, then smiles. “Oh! Hello. Sorry – did I wake you?”

 

His hair is perfect, as always, but his eyeliner is smudged, and his t-shirt is on inside out under his leather jacket.

 

“Not at all,” Cullen says. He bends to pick up Dorian’s keys, then steps back to let him in. “You know me. Sleep is for the weak.”

 

Dorian steps forward into the apartment, then promptly trips over nothing and falls into Cullen. “Kaffas!” He rights himself but doesn’t move away. “Sorry, sorry –“

 

Dorian’s hands are warm against his bare chest. This close, Cullen can smell his cologne mixing with the wine on his breath. He can see the remnants of some kind of gold makeup glittering on Dorian’s cheekbones. “It’s fine,” he says, steadying Dorian with a hand on his upper arm. “You good? Not going to fall over if I move?”

 

Dorian sways a little on his feet. “I think I can manage it,” he says, and pulls away to lean against the opposite wall. Cullen closes the door. When he turns back, Dorian is watching him with a tiny smile on his face, eyes unfocused and arms crossed over his chest.

 

“You had a good night, then?”

 

“Ah,” Dorian starts, and makes a so-so gesture with one hand. “Mostly. I definitely had a good time getting drunk. Adaar says hello, by the way.” He pushes off the wall and starts a wobbly bee line towards the couch. “The guy I went home with was awful, though.” He drapes himself over the couch like a fainting maiden, one arm flung dramatically over his forehead. “He wasn’t bad looking, at least. But he was selfish. Didn’t bother asking what I wanted, didn’t even think to give me a reach around –“

 

Cullen clears his throat, shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. He can feel the blush rising in his face.

 

“Oh dear,” Dorian says, “look at me, rambling about my sex life without a thought for my poor, celibate, heterosexual flatmate –“

 

“ _Dorian_!”

 

“ – but you really must stop blushing so much, it makes it far too tempting to go into detail –“

 

“Please don’t.”

 

“If you’re sure,” Dorian says. “What are we watching?” He attempts to take his docs off, still on his back on the couch, and almost knees himself in the face trying to yank one off without unlacing it.

 

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen says, “you’re going to hurt yourself. Let me do that.”

 

“Such a gentleman!” Dorian stretches back out. “Go on, then, I’m not going to say no to such an offer. Especially coming from as handsome a man as yourself. And shirtless, too –“

 

Cullen’s face must be nearing crimson by this point. Sometimes it seems like Dorian’s life’s mission is to make Cullen blush as hard as possible, as often as possible. He clears his throat again. “Right, shuffle back, then,” he says, and sets about untying Dorian’s boots.

 

“You know,” Dorian says, “it really is such a pity.”

 

“What is?”

 

“That you’re a… a heterosexual.” Dorian spits the last word like it’s not appropriate for polite company, and Cullen snorts. “I lament the fact every day – it’s a waste, truly…”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Cullen says fondly, tugging Dorian’s boot off.

 

“At least you’re,” Dorian starts, then yawns, “comfortable in your masculinity. Really would have been a waste if you were a homophobe. I quite like having you around.”

 

“Well, that’s good, then,” Cullen says. “I’d be worried if you didn’t. I can’t really afford to move.” He finishes taking off Dorian’s other boot. “Do you need a glass of water?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Dorian says. “See, this is – this is why! You would make such a good boyfriend. Such a good boyfriend.”

 

Cullen goes to get Dorian his glass of water. When he gets back, Dorian’s eyes are closed and he’s breathing slow and deep, one arm hanging off the side of the couch. Cullen puts the glass of water on the coffee table, gets the spare blanket from the linen closet, and spreads it out over Dorian, who mumbles something in Tevene and turns onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his chin like a small child.

 

Cullen nudges Dorian’s feet until he moves them enough for Cullen to sit on the couch with his legs tucked up underneath him, tugs the blanket down over his lap. Dorian’s feet rest against Cullen’s thigh. Cullen checks the time on his phone – five minutes to four, not nearly enough time for sleep if he doesn’t want to be dead on his feet the entirety of tomorrow.

 

He’s asleep by four thirty, anyway.

 

\---

 

Cullen’s last class gets out a little after six. He has some things he needs to talk to the professor about, questions for the assignment that’s due on Thursday, but there are others who have the same idea, so Cullen hangs back until everyone else is done. He waits in his seat, flicking through his notes from the lecture, until he’s the only one left in the room. He’s always nervous about speaking to professors. He’s nervous about speaking to almost everyone.

 

He talks to the professor, and says the words “I’m sorry” so much that she tells him to stop apologising, which just makes him want to say sorry all the more, and makes his face start to prickle with the heat he knows means he’s turning pink. He manages to ask his questions, though, and thanks her profusely for her time, and accidentally apologises again – twice – before practically fucking bowing out of the room.

 

The weather’s been weird all day, wind battering at the walls of the lecture halls, howling through the older buildings and making everyone on edge and uncomfortable, ominous grey-green clouds hanging heavy overhead. It starts to rain almost as soon as Cullen leaves his building, bucketing down immediately. He left the flat without an umbrella that morning, despite the clouds gathering at the edges of the sky; not that an umbrella would be worth anything with the wind driving the rain almost sideways.

 

Students are running all directions, using various items on hand as makeshift umbrellas. Cullen doesn’t bother trying – even if it helped keep the rain off, which it won’t, he’s too self-conscious to do anything like that. Instead he just walks quickly towards the bus stop, head down, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

 

It takes him maybe five minutes tops to get from his building to the nearest bus stop and he’s soaked through by the time he gets there. He rounds a corner just in time to see the bus he had been planning on taking pulling away from the curb.

 

The shelter is packed, people standing uncomfortably close together to get out of the rain. There are a few smokers standing outside the bus shelter, seemingly unbothered by the wet. Cullen huddles under the overhang. It doesn’t really keep the rain off, but it’s better than packing in with everyone else under the shelter.

 

It’s a fifteen minute wait for the next bus. He checks his phone for messages. There’s one, from Dorian: _Are you home for dinner tonight?_ He’s about to reply ( _what else would I be doing)_ when his phone goes dark, the battery dead. Well, that’s a thing. He puts his phone in his messenger bag. No use keeping it in his pocket when it’s dead.

 

The next bus heading his way pulls up right on time. As usual, Cullen waits for everyone else to get on first. Aside from appearing chivalrous or whatever, it means he doesn’t get stuck sitting on the window side of someone he’ll inevitably have to talk to in order to get off at the right stop.

 

He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, going to retrieve his bus pass, only to find that it’s not there. He digs through his bag, but even if it is there, his bag is too messy for him to find it. He looks for change, a little frantic now, knowing he’s holding the bus up. He can feel people watching him. His face is hot. He can’t find anything. Great.

 

“Sorry,” he says, and steps back off the bus. The driver shrugs, and the bus door slide shut in front of him.

 

He’s kind of out of options. Even if he were close enough with his classmates to ask one of them for a ride home, they all left before him. He could text Dorian to come and pick him up – if his phone weren’t dead. He resigns himself to the long, wet walk home.

 

It takes him forty minutes to walk from the university to the downtown block of flats he shares with Dorian, and it rains the entire way. He’s a little worried for his laptop in his sodden messenger bag – it has all his work from the year on it, his eighty percent finished assignment for Thursday, and if it ends up broken from water damage he has no backups, or the money for a new laptop.

 

Finally, _finally_ he gets to his building. Every inch of him is soaked, even his socks. His feet are starting to ache, unused, now he’s been back in Ferelden for a couple of years, to walking any kind of distance.

 

There’s an out of order sign on the single elevator, because of course there is.

 

There’s a sign on the landing in the stairwell: _warning! Slippery when wet_. The stairs themselves are a hazard of puddles of water and muddy footprints. He takes them gingerly, thinking that slipping and falling and landing himself in hospital would probably be the perfect ending to this particular evening, but he makes it up the six flights of stairs without incident.

 

Dorian’s fancy antique turntable is playing the weird indie blues rock that Dorian loves (but will deny loving, when asked about it) when Cullen gets into the flat. He can hear noise from the kitchen, the rattle of cutlery, which alarms him, because Dorian should not be let anywhere near a stove.

 

Instead of going straight to his room to get changed out of his dripping clothes, he cuts through the living room and sticks his head into the kitchen. It smells like burning, which is exactly what Cullen had expected. Dorian is barefoot in his skinny jeans and a plain black t-shirt, a full wineglass and a half empty bottle on the counter behind him, doing the washing up.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

 

Dorian doesn’t turn around. “I’m doing the dishes, what does it look like?”

 

“I didn’t know you knew how to do that,” Cullen says, and can practically hear Dorian’s eyes roll.

 

“Yes, well, my plebe of a flatmate insisted I learn when I was rudely booted out of my ivory tower,” Dorian says, turning around and drying his hands on a tea towel. “You’re welcome, by the way. I thought you might appreciate not having to scrape the remnants of my fantastic attempt at dinner off the bottom of the pan.” He picks up his glass of wine and takes a drink, then pulls a face. “Disgusting. The worst. Why do I subject myself to such terrible, cheap wines?”

 

“Oh, I definitely do,” Cullen says. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. It’s not every day I come home to find you doing something so domestic.”

 

“Well, it was raining, and you were late, and I thought you might like to take a break from cooking for once.”

 

Warmth blooms in Cullen’s chest in contrast to how cold the rest of him is. He has to turn away and pretend to be looking through his bag so that Dorian won’t see the smile on his face. “That was thoughtful,” he says, “if unsuccessful.”

 

“Yes, well,” Dorian says. “Don’t tell anybody. I can’t have people knowing I clean things myself.”

 

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” Cullen picks up his bag again. “Although you might have to wait a while for dinner. I need to take a shower before I die of the cold.”

 

“Oh,” Dorian says, “you don’t need to worry about that. I ordered Tevinter food. The good stuff; enough for both of us.”

 

Cullen wants to cry with relief. Instead, he sighs happily. “Dorian, you’re alright, you know that?”

 

“Of course I do. Now go take a shower before you catch your death.”

 

\---

 

Cullen’s phone buzzes as he’s unlocking the door to the flat. It’s Mia, another apology for having to cut their dinner short, telling him she’ll call him tomorrow. He flicks her a one-word answer and shoves the phone back in his pocket, nudging the door closed behind him.

 

There’s a sudden commotion from the couch. He looks up just in time to see Dorian bolt upright, face flushed dark and hair a dishevelled mess. He’s not wearing a shirt. Barely a moment later, another figure sits up: an Elven man Cullen’s not met, with long pale hair tied back in a careless bun and a tattoo curving across the left side of his face.

 

Cullen’s stomach swoops. He feels, briefly, like he’s going to throw up.

 

“Cullen,” Dorian says, his voice a little too much gravel, and okay, apparently Cullen’s body has decided that goosebumps are the correct response to the roughness of Dorian’s voice, and that’s confusing. What’s less confusing is the heat rising in his face. “You’re home early.”

 

“Yeah, sorry, Mia had to – um – I’m sorry,” Cullen says. His hand goes to the back of his neck automatically. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I can, um…” he gestures to the door. There’s a purple mark low on Dorian’s throat, and Cullen has to tear his eyes away, force himself to focus on literally anything else.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says the elf. He has an Antivan accent, because of course he fucking does. “This is your home, too. We’re not going to kick you out just because we couldn’t make it to the bedroom.” He stands and stretches. He has more tattoos curling around his upper arms, his chest, down his sides. There are gold rings through his nipples. Cullen doesn’t know where to look, wants to cover his eyes and back out of the apartment. He swallows hard. “Besides,” the elf says, “you’re a good looking fellow. I would be lying if I were to say I was not interested in inviting you to join us.”

 

Cullen’s brain goes blank for a moment, television static, before conjuring all sorts of images he wants out of his head immediately. The elf’s wide mouth, Dorian’s hands, his own pale skin against all that brown –

 

“Zevran!” Dorian hisses, then laughs. Cullen feels a little like he’s having one of those dreams, the kind where you’re naked in front of your high school class. His face and neck and chest are all hot from embarrassment and he would really rather be anywhere but here. “Sorry, Cullen, really. We’ll get out of your hair.”

 

“It’s fine,” Cullen says, eyes focused on the middle distance. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

Dorian takes Zevran’s hand and leads him in the direction of his bedroom. Cullen stays, for a moment, in the entranceway between the front door and the living room, not quite sure how to make his legs work. Then he goes to his room and collapses face down on the bed.

 

He feels horribly embarrassed, but beyond that, there’s something he can’t quite place. Awkwardness, definitely; annoyance, maybe, all twisting together in his stomach to make something akin to nausea.

 

He can’t stop thinking about the way Dorian looked when Cullen waked in: unkempt and a little flustered, but unashamed, with his moustache askew and his hair all mussed – he thinks about it and it just makes him feel worse, his stomach cramping with embarrassment, and why can’t he stop thinking about it?

 

He turns onto his back. He should get changed, he thinks. He should eat the rest of his dinner, in a Styrofoam take out box on his desk. He should do some study, get stuck into the next assignment he has due, focus on something other than the flush of Dorian’s face, the love bite on his throat and the sandpaper rough of his voice when he said Cullen’s name.

 

He can hear Dorian laughing in his bedroom. If only there were a single place in the apartment he wouldn’t be able to hear them. But his bedroom and Dorian’s share a wall, and so does Dorian’s room and the lounge. He could take a shower, but the thought of being naked while Dorian and his… friend are getting it on only two rooms away makes his stomach twist oddly.

 

He hears Zevran say something in a low voice, muffled through the wall, and Dorian moans. Cullen pulls his pillow over his face. Fuck.

 

He gets out his laptop and plugs in his headphones, turns his music up loud, and makes a valiant attempt at studying. But for some nonsensical reason, his brain is supplying him with a steady stream of vivid imagery: Zevran’s mouth open against Dorian’s skin. Dorian’s hands gripping Zevran’s shoulders (or hips, or ass). Dorian’s head tipped backwards, his jet black hair a mess against the pillows, eyes rolling back as he gasps –

 

He gets to the end of the paragraph he’s supposed to be reading and realises he has absorbed absolutely none of it, too distracted by the scene in his head. He tells himself to pull himself together, goes back to the start of the paragraph to try again.

 

But Zevran on top of Dorian, his knees on either side of Dorian’s thighs as he kisses him hard enough for his lips to look like they did when he walked in, almost bruised and slick from spit; his hands around Dorian’s wrists as Dorian writhes underneath him – or maybe Dorian is on his hands and knees, with Zevran behind him, bent over him –

 

Cullen shakes his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, and tries again with the paragraph. There’s no reason at all why he should be preoccupied with this, no reason as to why he is suddenly, frustratingly overtaken by the concept of Dorian having sex. Also, he realises, there’s no reason at all as to why he’s assumed Dorian would be the one underneath Zevran. There’s nothing about Dorian’s personality to imply that Dorian’s a bottom, so why has Cullen’s treacherous subconscious automatically decided he’s the one taking it? Dorian could be the one leaning over Zevran, pinning him to the bed with his whole body, holding him down and opening him up and –

 

Cullen’s head hits his desk with a thump. A strange sort of empty heat is buried deep in the center of his chest, uncomfortable, feeling a little guilty and a little like he might impulsively take his headphones off and press his ear to the wall just to satisfy his curiosity, and that is somewhere he most definitely does not want to go.

 

He gives up on the concept of studying, his thoughts moving too fast for him to properly follow the reading. His eyes have scanned that same initial paragraph, unseeing, for what feels like dozens of times. He decides to take his pills, get into bed, and watch Netflix with his headphones in until he either falls asleep or has to get out of bed. At least with Netflix he won’t have to focus too hard. Maybe if he scrolls through his social media feeds on his phone at the same time, his brain will be too full of stimuli to think about what’s going on in the room next door.

  
\---

 

The next morning, he finds Dorian sitting in the kitchen in the ridiculous silk robe he wears around the flat, drinking coffee and doing the crossword in yesterday’s paper. Zevran is nowhere in sight.

 

He makes himself some coffee and sits at the cluttered kitchen table opposite Dorian. Dorian obviously hasn’t been up very long – his hair is still all over the place, and he hasn’t shaved yet. Cullen can’t help but glance at the bruise on Dorian’s throat.

 

“Morning,” Dorian says. “I need a five-letter word for bizarre.”

 

“It’s too early for logic,” Cullen tells him, and takes a long drink of coffee. “How, uh. I mean. Zevran seems… interesting.” He immediately wants to faceplant into the table. Why did he say that?

 

One of Dorian’s eyebrows quirks, but he doesn’t look up. “You could certainly say that,” he says lightly, tapping his pen against the table. “I _am_ sorry about last night. If I’d known you would be home soon I would have moved it to the bedroom much earlier. Or gone to his place.”

 

“No, I’m sorry,” Cullen says. “I should have… I don’t know…”

 

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Dorian says. He looks up at Cullen and smiles. “Really. Don’t fret about it.” Then, “Shit! I’m an idiot,” and leans back over to scribble on the crossword.

 

Cullen has more questions about Zevran. Questions like: is that your type, then? (He doesn’t think so. He’s seen photos of Dorian’s old boyfriends and they’re less… elfy, more muscle and body hair.) Or, how did you meet? (That’s a bad idea, because what if Dorian says ‘Grindr’ and Cullen has to awkwardly flounder for words?) Or, is Zevran going to be around more often? (Truthfully, he doesn’t want to know the answer to that, and he doesn’t want to think too hard about why that is.)

 

So he sits and drinks his coffee in silence, and Dorian does his crossword, and neither of them say any more about it.

  
\---

 

Eventually, Cullen manages to get Zevran’s voice asking him to join them out of his head.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you have any urgent or overdue assignments to work on?”

 

“No, but –“

 

“No, because you always get your assignments done weeks before they’re due. And do you have any exams coming up that you have to study for?”

 

“Well, no, but –“

 

“No, because even if we had exams coming up, you revise every second of the day you’re not in class or working on assignments. And do you have work at some ungodly time tomorrow?”

 

“You know I don’t.”

 

“Then there’s no harm in coming out tonight, is there?”

 

Dorian lounges against the wall of the kitchen, hips tilted and arms crossed over his chest. Cullen is trying his best to ignore him.

 

“Cullen,” Dorian tries again, “you never come out. You never do anything fun. You’re wound so tight I wouldn’t be surprised if your head were to pop right off.”

 

“I don’t like going out,” Cullen says. “It’s just not my scene.”

 

“We’re not going clubbing or anything,” Dorian says. “Just drinks at a pub. It isn’t even a very busy one. Not full of first-years like places closer to campus.”

 

Cullen changes tack. “I won’t know anyone there. And I’ll be awkward. You’ll forever be known as the guy with the weird flatmate.”

 

“You know Adaar and Sera. And you’re not as weird as you think you are,” Dorian says. “Uptight and incapable of having fun, maybe –“

 

“Hey!”

 

“ – but not weird.” Dorian pushes off the wall and comes up so close to Cullen that he can feel the heat of Dorian’s body against his back. “Come on. If ever there was a man who needed to relax for a night, it’s you.”

 

Cullen sighs. Dorian’s right; he really doesn’t know how to relax. “Fine. I’ll come out with you. But only for one drink. And I reserve the right to leave early if I want to.”

 

“Of course,” Dorian says. “Fantastic. We’re meeting at half eight – we’ll walk down. If we take my car, I will, without a doubt, get utterly shitfaced and try to drive home, and that’s no good for anyone.”

 

They leave the flat late, because Dorian takes forever to get ready. It’s not too far a walk to the pub – fifteen minutes of walking and they’re there, ten to nine instead of half eight. “Fashionably late,” Dorian tells him, winking.

 

Cullen’s relieved to note Dorian was telling him the truth: the pub, while not empty, isn’t remotely crowded, with a few empty tables. The music isn’t too loud to talk. Nobody seems to be too drunk to walk in a straight line. All in all, it’s the complete opposite of the places Cullen used to frequent in Kirkwall.

 

While they’re waiting for their drinks to be poured, Cullen turns to Dorian and says, “Hey, would you… keep an eye on me? Make sure I don’t decide liquor is a good idea?”

 

“Of course,” Dorian says. “Don’t worry. I have your back, as they say.”

 

Dorian leads him to the back of the room, where someone’s pushed two tables together. Cullen almost freezes up, almost turns immediately and walks straight out of the pub, because while the pub itself isn’t crowded, these two tables definitely are.

 

“Um,” Cullen says.

 

Dorian wraps a hand around his elbow. “You’ll be fine,” he murmurs.

 

Dorian’s friends are an eclectic group of people, to say the least.

 

Varric has apparently been blessed with a ridiculous amount of charisma, because people keep stopping by the table to say hi to him. Adaar – who Cullen has met exactly twice, when she’s come to the flat to pick Dorian up on their way out – might be even more charismatic than Varric. People don’t stop to talk to her like they do with Varric, but everyone at the table seems to be a little bit in love with her.

 

Everyone is in love with Adaar but Adaar is in love with Sera, whom Cullen has also met before, a tiny girl with a filthy mouth and a terrible undercut. Cullen wonders if Dorian has tried to stage some kind of fashion intervention at some point, because he’s certain he remembers her wearing jeans that were more hole than denim when he met her, but today there’s not a single rip in sight.

 

Josephine is dressed on par with Dorian, sitting quietly next to Varric and staring at her phone until Adaar pulls it from her hands. “You work too much,” she says when Josephine protests. “We’re meant to be setting an example.” She jerks her head in Cullen’s direction.

 

Cullen actually manages to hold a half decent conversation across the table with Blackwall, whose dominant personality trait seems to be ‘could survive in the woods for half a year with nothing but a hatchet and the clothes on his back.’ It strikes him as odd that such a beardy straight guy has somehow become part of this motley crew of, well, not beardy straight dudes, but then again, he’s here, right? Maybe Blackwall is someone’s awkward straight flatmate too.

 

And then there’s Cole. Cole looks to be quite a bit younger than everyone else. He seems to be sitting in a different place every time Cullen looks at him, like he’s playing the world’s most subtle game of musical chairs. His contribution to the conversation seems to be fragments of poetry and strangely earnest life advice.

 

“You should tell him,” he tells Cullen at one point, out of the blue.

 

“Tell who what?”

 

Cole studies him for a moment, looking right through him with big bruised eyes. “Oh,” he says. “You don’t know yet. Sorry. Forget what I said.” And he turns away.

 

Varric, who had watched this exchange with an inscrutable look on his face, leans over. “Don’t mind him, he says. “Kid’s some kind of hyper-empath. He means well.” And that doesn’t do anything to help, because what does Cole know that Cullen doesn’t?

 

Cullen finds himself sitting between Dorian and Varric. It’s not a bad place to sit, because it means he can listen to Varric’s stories and Adaar’s interjections of “you’re exaggerating” and “that’s not how it happened” and “are you forgetting I was there, too?” with Dorian’s wicked commentary murmured in his ear.

 

By half past ten, Cullen’s pleasantly buzzed from the beer, significantly less anxious than he had thought he would be, and thinking that he might come out again, some time. Maybe not next week. But eventually.

 

“Want another?” And Dorian stands.

 

“Why not?”

 

Cullen is too caught up listening to Varric and Adaar argue about if it’s more important to tell a story how it happened or so it’s entertaining enough to conceivably have a movie made about it to notice how long Dorian is taking to return. But then Adaar trails off mid-sentence, face going serious, looking at something over Cullen’s shoulder. Cullen twists in his seat to look behind him.

 

A small crowd has built up at the bar, waiting for drinks or talking to the bartenders or getting lost in conversations they’re too drunk to realise they could be having at an actual table. Dorian is standing at the far end of the bar. His arms are crossed in front of him, shoulders tense and face a practiced blank expression.

 

“Who’s that, talking to Dorian?” Adaar asks, frowning.

 

Whoever it is doesn’t seem to have any concept of personal space, or he doesn’t give a fuck about Dorian’s, standing over him even as Dorian leans away. He’s a few inches taller than Dorian, head tilted down towards him, one hand on the bar next to him, almost caging him in.

 

“He didn’t think he’d ever see him again,” Cole says quietly. “Whiskey skin and shaded cheekbones, the way his lips curl when he smiles – he was home, until he wasn’t.”

 

As Cole says this, Dorian looks over the other man’s shoulder in their direction. His eyes meet Cullen’s for a long moment. Then he looks away again, and Cullen stands immediately, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, his heart in his throat.

 

“I,” he stars. “I’m just going to –“

 

“Yes,” Adaar says, “I think that’s a good idea.”

 

“I don’t think – he doesn’t look –“

 

“Go,” Cole says emphatically. So Cullen does, not thinking. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say or do when he gets to Dorian, only that he’s going to be there, and that’s better than leaving him to deal with whatever situation has him so closed off and uncomfortable by himself.

 

As he approaches, he catches a segment of a sentence, spoken in a deep voice with an upper class Tevinter accent to match Dorian’s. “ – home with me, it’s been so long –“ and Cullen stops dead in his tracks with uncertainty.

 

But then Dorian catches his eyes again, and his face lightens almost imperceptibly. “Cullen,” he calls, his voice easy in contrast to his closed off body language, and that’s enough to get Cullen moving again.

 

Dorian reaches out to Cullen, takes his hand before he knows what’s happening, and pulls him close. “Um,” Cullen says intelligently.

 

“Amatus,” Dorian says, and there’s a word Cullen’s never heard before; an interesting one, if the way the other man’s eyebrows shoot up is any indication. “What perfect timing. This is Rilienus – I’m sure I’ve told you about him; we dated, back in Minrathous.”

 

Cullen’s never even heard the name Rilienus before. Dorian’s not exactly open when it comes to personal matters. When Dorian mentions he’s told Cullen about him, though, Rilienus’ casual smile freezes on his face. Dorian doesn’t let go of Cullen’s hand, instead sliding his fingers between Cullen’s, palm to palm.

 

“Rilienus,” Dorian says, “this is my boyfriend, Cullen.”

 

Cullen is very proud of the way he manages to keep a straight face. Understanding is dawning on him – he’d done this for female friends of his back in Kirkwall once or twice, played the boyfriend to keep some creep away from them. They’d never been people they actually knew, though, and Cullen feels like the stakes are… not higher, exactly, but different.

 

“A pleasure,” Rilienus says. He doesn’t extend his hand to Cullen to shake.

 

Cullen nods. “Same to you,” he says carefully, keeping his voice cold. Whatever Dorian hasn’t told him about Rilienus, he’s pretty certain their relationship ended badly, and the way Rilienus’ expression went brittle and fake when Dorian introduced them makes him think that Rilienus knows he did something wrong.

 

He turns towards Dorian, putting himself between him and Rilienus. “Did you get those drinks? Or were you wanting to head home?” he asks, keeping his voice pitched low. _Do we need to get you out of here?_

 

“Let’s have one more,” Dorian says. “We can still get an early night if we leave in, say, half an hour.”

 

“Sure.” Cullen signals the bartender.

 

“So,” Rilienus says. He looks Cullen up and down – at his scruffy shoes, his flannel, his unkempt hair. “He doesn’t seem like your usual type, Dorian. No offence,” he tells Cullen, who immediately takes full offence, like he’s sure Rilienus wanted him to. “How did you two meet?”

 

“We go to the same university,” Dorian says. So, little white lies then, that’s how they’re doing this. Cullen can roll with that.

 

“Really?” Rilienus says. “What do you study?” he asks Cullen.

 

“Social work. Only second year. It’s not one of those things you go into straight out of high school, you know?”

 

“Cullen used to be a firefighter,” Dorian says, doing a very good impression of someone gushing over their partner’s accomplishments. “Anyway,” Dorian says, when their drinks are ready, “we have to get back to our friends. It was… lovely… to see you.”

 

He lets go of Cullen’s hand so Cullen can pick up their glasses. “I’d ask you to join us,” Cullen says, “but there aren’t any seats free at our table.” He gestures towards the tables where everyone else is pretending not to watch. There are clearly a few empty seats.

 

“Of course,” Rilienus says.

 

Back at the tables, everyone is suddenly engaged in intense conversation that has nothing to do with what just happened. Dorian sits, and, once Cullen’s set the drinks down, pulls Cullen into the seat next to him.

 

“Thank you,” Dorian says quietly.

 

“No problem,” Cullen says. “Is he still watching?”

 

Dorian sneaks a look over his shoulder. “Mm hm.”

 

Cullen rests his arm on the back of Dorian’s chair, one hand nonchalantly on Dorian’s shoulder. “Better keep it up a little while longer, then,” Cullen says. Dorian smiles at him and relaxes back against his arm.

 

Cullen can feel the nervous energy coming off Dorian in waves. He keeps laughing at jokes he’d never normally laugh at, and he’s constantly stopping himself from looking back over his shoulder at the bar, his head turning slightly before he forces himself to look straight ahead.

 

“Hey,” Cullen says after ten minutes of Dorian trying very hard to appear like he doesn’t care that his ex boyfriend is at the bar. “Are you sure you don’t want to get out of here?”

 

“Quite sure,” Dorian says. When Cullen looks at him, he sighs. “I’m not running away from him.”

 

“It’s not running away.”

 

“It would look like it was.” He takes a long drink from his glass.

 

Eventually – forty five minutes or so later – Dorian pushes his empty glass away from him. “Well,” he announces, “it’s been a lovely evening, but I’m afraid we must take our leave.”

 

“So soon?” Varric says. “It’s hardly pumpkin hour. Are you feeling alright?”

 

“Perfectly fine,” Dorian assures him. “But I’ve been overcome with sudden tiredness, and I’m afraid I won’t be an awful lot of fun for much longer.” He stands, and Cullen stands with him.

 

“It was wonderful to finally meet you,” Josephine tells Cullen. “Please do join us again.” There’s an echoed sentiment around the table.

 

On their way out, they walk past Rilienus, sitting alone at the bar. Cullen puts his arm around Dorian’s waist, every inch the protective boyfriend, and does not look at Rilienus. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees him raise his glass in their direction. Dorian straightens his back, squares his shoulders, looks straight ahead.

 

As soon as they’re out of there Dorian sighs with relief. “Well,” he says, “that was a much more eventful night than I had thought it would be. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you about coming out again.”

 

“No,” Cullen says, “no, Dorian, it was good. I enjoyed myself. Aside from your ex showing up, I mean.”

 

Dorian huffs a laugh. “He’s hardly my ex. We dated for a few months, yes, but it was never serious,” he says. “It was Minrathous, after all. Maker forbid two men have any kind of relationship beyond the purely physical.”

 

They walk side by side in the warm night air. Dorian is no longer radiating anxiety, but Cullen catches him glancing at him once or twice.

 

“I wasn’t expecting to ever see him again,” Dorian admits after a while. “He’s hardly the reason I left Tevinter, but I had hoped…” he trails off, then turns his head to look at Cullen seriously. “You mustn’t tell anyone how awfully sentimental I am around you when I’m drunk. It would do awful things to my reputation as a heartless bitch.”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Cullen says.

 

“I may not have been exactly truthful when I told you the relationship between Rilienus and I was purely physical,” Dorian says. “Not on my behalf, at least. I got… attached. More than I should have. And I thought – no, I hoped -he felt the same about me.” He sighs. “He didn’t, of course. And he made that very clear the last time I saw him.” Cullen feels Dorian shudder. “Stupid,” Dorian mutters. “To think a man who cares so deeply about appearances would be interested in something more than sex, not in a place like Tevinter.”

 

“I don’t think that’s stupid at all,” Cullen says.

 

They walk the rest of the way home in comfortable silence. Cullen realises, when they’re maybe five minutes away from the flat, that his arm is still around Dorian’s waist, and has been since they left the bar. 

 

\---

 

There’s a stranger in the kitchen.

 

Cullen stands in the doorway, feeling awkward, as usual. The man in the kitchen is a little taller than him, broad shoulders and messy black hair. He’s facing away from him, shirtless, jeans low enough on his hips that Cullen can see he isn’t wearing underwear, and he has a tattoo low in his back of a dragon in red ink, its tail disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. He has a jug of coffee brewing in front of him while he studies his phone.

 

Cullen clears his throat uncomfortably. The man starts visibly, turning. He has a decent, if scruffy, beard, and more dark hair covering his considerably muscled chest. “Oh, you must be the roommate,” he says. “Sorry, I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”

 

“That’s… fine,” Cullen says. He wishes he were wearing more than boxers and an old threadbare t-shirt from the Andrastian summer camp he had worked at as a teenager. He has to admit, Dorian’s taste in men, while eclectic, is not terrible. Even Cullen can tell this man is incredibly attractive. He has a sudden image of this man on top of Dorian, pinning him, his mouth on the back of Dorian’s neck, and can feel himself start to flush. What is it with his brain, lately?

 

Cullen considers going back to his room until this guy is out of the kitchen, but thinks that maybe that would come across weird? He really needs his morning coffee, too. As if he’s said it out loud, the guy says, “I think there’s enough for three cups, here. I can pour you one if you like?”

 

“Uh,” Cullen says, “um, sure. That would be great.”

 

“Great,” the guy says.

 

Dorian appears from his room right as the coffee is being poured. He’s in his pajama pants, robe open over his bare chest. “Good morning, Cullen,” he says, wandering right past him into the kitchen. “Oh, is this for me?” He crowds up against the other man, who presses a mug into his hands.

 

Dorian hums, and tilts his head up a little to kiss him. Cullen immediately looks away. It’s not a chaste kiss, either – it goes on for a while, and when they’re done, Dorian doesn’t pull away. His – friend? – slides an arm around his waist, holding him close.

 

“Oh,” Dorian says, sounding a little breathless, “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. This is Cullen, my flatmate. Cullen, this is Garrett.”

 

“Hi,” Garrett says, smiling at Cullen.

 

“Yeah, hi,” Cullen says. “Nice to meet you. Um –“

 

But Dorian has his mouth pressed against Garrett’s jaw, murmuring something into his ear, and Garrett’s head is turned town towards him, his eyes only half open. It’s such an intimate moment and Dorian just initiated it right in front of Cullen like he’s not even there. Cullen has no idea what to do, where his eyes should be, what to say. He coughs, once, and says, “Could I maybe get at my coffee?”

 

“Oh, sorry,” says Garrett, but it’s like Dorian hasn’t even heard him, face pressed into Garrett’s neck. Cullen keeps his eyes carefully on his coffee mug. Garrett slides it towards him along the counter with one hand, but Cullen still has to walk around them to get to the milk in the fridge.

 

Face burning, Cullen tops his coffee up with milk, then he and his coffee beat a hasty retreat to his bedroom. He closes the door behind him.

 

What was Dorian thinking? He might delight in making Cullen turn bright red with embarrassment, but he’s never gone as far as to actually start making out with someone right in front of Cullen. He hasn’t actually ever seen Dorian with a guy before the incident with Zevran a few weeks ago, and that was embarrassing enough.

 

Cullen knows Dorian’s had guys over in the evenings before, but he’s usually very discreet about it, to the point that Cullen hasn’t met many of Dorian’s trysts at all. He can’t remember any of them ever staying the night. Maybe – and something shifts in Cullen’s chest when he thinks this – maybe Garrett is… different.

 

An odd feeling starts building deep inside him at the thought, heavy and cloying. Maybe Garrett isn’t one of Dorian’s casual hook ups. Maybe they’ve been seeing each other for a while, and last night was just the first time they hadn’t gone back to Garrett’s place. Maybe Garrett’s going to stick around.

 

Cullen tries to imagine coming home to find Dorian and Garrett in the kitchen together, Garrett cooking something while Dorian sits at the kitchen table with his glass of wine; watching movies with Dorian and Garrett curled up together on the couch while he sits in the armchair. He wonders how Dorian would act, with a boyfriend – would they be all over each other constantly like they were in the kitchen?

 

The feeling in his chest builds and builds, and he still can’t place it. It’s making him restless, anxious. Is he doomed to do this every time Dorian has someone different over? Cursed to have unrelenting thoughts regarding Dorian’s sex life? He desperately doesn’t want to be thinking about Dorian on his knees, but here he is. He doesn’t want to imagine what kind of noises Dorian might make, or if his hands are on Garrett’s hips or thighs or between his own legs, jerking himself off. His brain is throwing ridiculous, pornographic images at him – Dorian’s eyeliner dripping down his face; his mouth stretched wide, his cheeks hollow; his eyes closed and his mouth open and –

 

Cullen’s cock twitches and he looks down at himself, horrified. Is he actually getting turned on by this? By imagining Dorian sucking dick? He can’t be – he’s straight, he’s never been turned on thinking about a man before. It must be the general idea of it, of someone on their knees. It’s been a while since Cullen’s had his cock sucked. It’s been a while since Cullen’s done anything sexual with anyone, full stop. It’s only natural. It must be.

 

He shifts in his seat, hot all over, and absolutely does not think about Dorian on his knees.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple content warnings for this chapter - Dorian is, as usual, an alcoholic with terrible coping mechanisms, and there's some discussion of homophobia, family abuse and conversion therapy in line with canon. stay safe!

Cullen manages a good five hours’ sleep, wakes just past half five in the morning. He lets himself take a long shower, washes his hair, jerks off lazily under the hot spray, thinking about nothing specific, someone else’s hands on him, someone’s mouth.

 

He takes his time shaving, dresses in his usual uniform of jeans, sneakers, button-down. Takes his time drinking his coffee.

 

He leaves the house just after eight. Dorian must not have any meetings today, because he’s still in bed when Cullen leaves.

  
  
\---

 

When Cullen gets back around four that afternoon, Dorian is lounging on the couch in his robe, television on and turned to one of those mindless reality channels. He glances over the back of the couch when Cullen gets in and gives him a little wave.

 

This is strange, because Dorian is never home when Cullen gets back from class. Dorian is a very busy person: if he’s not up at the uni working on his dissertation or teaching undergrads basic magical history, he’s out with friends, drinking or dancing or chatting up someone at a bar. If he’s home during the day, it’s usually because he’s ill.

 

“Hey,” Cullen says casually, crossing the living room to dump his bag in his room, “are you okay?”

 

Dorian hums noncommittally. Cullen drops into the armchair. There are wine bottles on the coffee table, three of them: two empty, one mostly full. Not ill, then. Cullen can’t see a wine glass. He frowns.

 

“Hey,” Cullen says again, gently. “Dorian.”

 

“Hush,” Dorian says. “Emma’s mother is about to find out she didn’t – didn’t get the solo. She’s going – she’ll – she’s gonna flip her shit.” He picks up the still full bottle of wine and takes a drink straight from the bottle. Cullen raises his eyebrows.

 

“Have you been drinking all day?”

 

“Yes,” Dorian says, stretching the ‘y’ like bubblegum. “Be quiet, please. You can – tell me off, or, or, or pity me, or whatever you’re planning, after this woman has a breakdown over her – her daughter’s extracurricular activities.”

 

Cullen says nothing. He gets up and goes into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water and something to eat. He’s seen Dorian drunk before (how could he not, living with him?) but he’s never seen Dorian like this. He’s even slurring his words. Cullen’s never heard him slur, not in all of his talking to drunk Dorian.

 

Cullen comes back into the living room. The television is showing an advertisement for some voyeuristic celebrity reality show. He sits again.

 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Dorian says.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like – like – like you feel sorry for me.”

 

“You’re reading into things,” Cullen says flatly. “Mostly I’m just wondering why you’re this drunk in the middle of the day.”

 

“It’s not… it is not the middle of the day,” Dorian says. “It must be at least – at least five.”

 

“Yes,” Cullen says, “and you’ve been drinking since when?”

 

“I woke up at eleven,” Dorian mutters.

 

“Did something happen?”

 

Dorian doesn’t say anything for a while. He sighs, and flaps at the remote control. “Mute that, will you?” Cullen does. “I,” Dorian starts, then stops, picks up the wine bottle, drinks, does not set it down. “I saw my father yesterday.”

 

Cullen nods slowly. “Okay.”

 

“He asked me,” Dorian says, and his knuckles are white where he’s gripping the neck of the wine bottle, “he asked me – to – oh fuck,” and he rolls off the couch and manages to stumble to the bathroom before he throws up.

 

Cullen is a little unsure of what to do. He goes to the kitchen and pours Dorian a glass of water, then lingers outside the open bathroom door, wondering if Dorian will be okay with Cullen being there.

 

He knocks awkwardly on the door frame. “I got you some water,” he says.

 

Dorian is hunched over the toilet, face pale and sweating. “Hold – hold on,” he says, and vomits again, nothing but red liquid.

 

Cullen puts the glass of water on the bathroom counter. He kneels on the tile next to Dorian, and hesitantly puts a hand on his back, rubbing gently. He doesn’t know if this is weird or not, but he knows how soothing simple touch can be when you’re off your face and throwing up, so he does it. Dorian makes an ugly noise, a half laugh, half sob.

 

“Is this okay?” he asks.

 

“Please,” says Dorian. “I’m okay, I’ll be – ugh,” and he throws up again.

 

When he’s finished he spits into the toilet. “I think I’m done,” he says weakly. Cullen hands him the water. He takes a mouthful, swirls it around his mouth and spits, then flushes and sits back on the floor, his back against the wall. He grimaces. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

 

“It’s okay,” Cullen says. He sits opposite Dorian. “Are you alright?”

 

“A little less drunk, I think.” Dorian has some of the water, puts the glass down next to him and tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling. “But no. Not really.”

 

“Do you… need to talk about it?”

 

“Probably.”

 

They sit in silence for a while. Cullen is mostly trying to think of what to say. Then Dorian says, “He asked me to come home.”

 

It takes Cullen a moment to connect what Dorian’s saying with what they had been talking about in the living room. “Your father?”

 

“Yes.” Dorian is still staring at a spot somewhere on the ceiling. “He sent me an email. Last week. He wanted to meet. I, fool that I am, accepted.” He’s quiet for a long moment. “I haven’t told you why my parents cut me off, have I? I think I would remember if I had, but there’s always the chance I’ve gotten black out drunk and… spilled my guts, as it were.” He smiles wryly.

 

“You haven’t told me much,” Cullen says. “Just that it involved your, um, you being –“

 

“A flaming fucking queer?”

 

Cullen winces. “I wouldn’t have worded it like that.”

 

“Of course you wouldn’t have, you’re a perfectly decent human being. Halward, on the other hand…” he trails off. “Fuck. I need a drink. Is there any chance you would get me the bottle of wine from the living room? I’m not sure I can stand.”

 

“None at all,” Cullen says. “I can refill your water, but that’s going to be it.”

 

“Of course,” Dorian sighs. “You truly are too good for me, Cullen.”

 

“I’m just being a friend.”

 

Dorian is quiet a moment. “Yes,” he murmurs, “of course,” and Cullen can’t help but feel like he’s said the wrong thing.

 

“Dorian –“

 

“I’m an only child, you know,” Dorian says. “The only heir to the Pavus fortune. Or, I was. I’m not sure I’m even mentioned in the will, now.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and says nothing.

 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Cullen says, finally.

 

“No, I want to,” Dorian says. “You know, sometimes I wonder if I am being unreasonable. If I’m not just behaving like a spoiled child. At the very least, you can give me an outside opinion.”

 

Dorian closes his eyes.

 

“Halward found out I was gay when I was sixteen. It was an accident. He walked in on me kissing a boy when we were supposed to be studying.” He laughs. It is not a pleasant sound. “There were much worse things he could have caught me doing. We were both sober, fully clothed – we weren’t even on the bed. Still, the consequences were dire.” He looks at Cullen. “You know, before this happened, I had been preparing to come out to my parents of my own volition? I thought – I thought they would take it well. They were always progressive. I had a friend who transitioned when we were teenagers – they didn’t say anything cruel about her, not within my earshot, at least.”

 

He looks down. “As it was, they didn’t take it well. Halward especially. There was an argument. Things were said.” He makes a disgusted noise. “Are you sure I can’t have the rest of that wine?”

 

“If you can walk to the living room to get it yourself, be my guest,” Cullen says.

 

“Ugh. But everything’s so… spinny.”

 

Cullen refills Dorian’s glass at the bathroom sink. “Drink this instead,” he tells Dorian. Dorian crinkles his nose, but he does.

 

“I tried to leave,” Dorian continues eventually. “I packed a bag and went to Felix’s place. A week later, my mother called his parents. She told them that I was exaggerating. That Halward had never said –“ Dorian’s voice breaks and he clears his throat. “Anyway.

 

“I went home. And for the next few months nobody even mentioned it. It was like it had never happened at all.” He runs a hand through his already messy hair, and Cullen hears him swallow. “Until they sent me to conversion therapy.”

 

“Fuck, Dorian,” Cullen says. “I didn’t – Maker’s breath, I’m sorry.”

 

“Me too,” Dorian says. “I won’t go into details. It didn’t work, obviously. I let them think it did. Made them easier to live with. I even had a girlfriend when I first went to university, if you can believe that. Lovely girl. Very smart, studied political science; exactly the type of person my parents thought I should marry.” He smiles. “Oh, and a gigantic lesbian, of course.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“I fed my parents some line about Skyhold having a good magical history department and transferred here for my masters’. I stopped being so careful about who knew I was gay. It’s easier, in the south. Nobody cares.

 

“Anyway. A couple of years ago I was seeing this guy. Nothing serious. But a friend of my mother’s was visiting Skyhold and saw me with him. I got a phone call later that week from my father, asking if it was true. I told him it was. He told me to not bother coming home that Satinalia, cancelled his payments on my apartment and school fees, and here we are.”

 

“No offence, Dorian,” says Cullen, “but your dad sounds like the dictionary definition of a cunt.”

 

Dorian laughs. “Oh, he absolutely is. That doesn’t stop the fact that he’s still my father. I thought, when he emailed me, that maybe he’d come to his senses. That maybe he was going to – to apologise, at the very least.”

 

“And he didn’t,” Cullen guesses.

 

“He told me – he asked me to come home. Said all would be forgiven if I just came back to Minrathous – like I’m the one who needs forgiveness.” He smiles sadly. “Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside.”

 

Dorian’s shoulder sag, and he exhales.

 

“Dorian,” Cullen begins, then falters.

 

“No,” Dorian says, “it’s alright. You don’t have to say anything.” He rolls his shoulders, stretching. “I should brush my teeth. My mouth tastes like stomach acid.”

 

Cullen helps him to his feet.

 

“I think I’ll need some help getting from here to the couch, if that’s alright with you,” Dorian admits.

 

Cullen leans against the door frame as Dorian brushes his teeth, then lets Dorian lean on him as they walk the short distance down the hallway to the living room.

 

It’s only about six in the evening. The sun is still low in the sky, and the television is still on, muted. Dorian slides from Cullen’s grip onto the couch, where he turns his face into the cushions and makes a low, pained noise. He grabs in the rough direction of the wine bottle.

 

“No,” Cullen says, picking up the bottle. “What, do you want to throw up again?”

 

“I really would prefer drinking myself into a stupor than almost anything else at this moment,” Dorian says, muffled by the couch cushions.

 

“You can have the rest of this when you can stand up by yourself,” Cullen says. “Do reds go in the fridge, or the cupboard?”

 

“Cupboard,” Dorian mumbles. “Doesn’t matter though. It’s an eight-sovereign bottle, it tastes like utter shit.”

 

“Here,” Cullen says, dropping the remote on Dorian’s stomach. “Watch some trashy TV. I’ll make us some dinner. Something to soak up the alcohol.”

 

“Mmm, fine. But only because you’re so handsome.”

 

“So it’s back to flirting, is it? No more deep and meaningfuls?”

 

“Excuse me, I have never said anything meaningful in my life.”

 

Cullen stashes Dorian’s wine in one of the top cupboards, sets about getting out the ingredients for the easiest and quickest comfort food he knows. He can hear Dorian channel surfing in the living room as he begins to cook. He’s not quite sure how he feels about the conversation they just had. He’s horrified, of course – he knew Dorian’s parents were bad, but conversion therapy?

 

Conversion therapy is illegal in Ferelden, has been since it first became a thing. He doesn’t know much about it, only that it’s based on the concept that being gay – or bi, or trans, or what have you – isn’t something inherent, or even true. That it’s some kind of mental illness.

 

Cullen knows what mental illness is like. Comparing falling in love to mental illness is something he can’t comprehend.

 

He’s angry on Dorian’s behalf, and sad on Dorian’s behalf, but also, on some level, he feels kind of… warm. Not happy, exactly, but – proud, maybe, that Dorian trusted him enough to tell him. Of course, he had to get roaring drunk to do it, so Cullen doesn’t know what that means. Maybe Dorian will regret telling him in the morning. Maybe they’ll act like the conversation never happened.

 

When everything’s done he dishes the food out into two big bowls. Back in the living room, Dorian is still lying on the couch, eyes unfocused as he watches some cooking show.

 

“Oh, that smells fantastic,” Dorian says. “I didn’t realise I was so hungry.” He shifts until he’s almost upright, curls up so there’s room next to him.

 

“It’s nothing fancy. Have you even eaten today?”

 

“I can’t remember.”

 

“I’m going to assume that’s a no,” Cullen says. “There’s plenty more, if you’re still hungry when you’re done.”

 

“You’re the best,” Dorian says, and takes a mouthful. “Cullen. This is so good. Have I told you that I love you?”

 

Something sparks warm in Cullen’s gut, spreads through his chest. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

 

They watch television as they eat, not talking. Somehow, when they’ve both finished eating and the plates are stacked next to the kitchen sink for washing later, Cullen ends up with Dorian leaning against him, their arms pressed together. He doesn’t know how Dorian got so close, but he doesn’t mind. It’s not uncomfortable. In fact, it’s kind of nice. Dorian’s weight against him is warm and relaxing, and he can smell the spice of Dorian’s fancy shampoo.

 

Eventually, Dorian’s head hits his shoulder, and Cullen realises that he’s fallen asleep. It’s not yet gone nine p.m., but Dorian’s got a lot of alcohol in his system, and Cullen thinks it’s probably best to let him sleep it off. He doesn’t want to move yet, though. 

 

He shifts a little to get more comfortable, ends up with Dorian’s head resting against his chest. He feels a little weird about it – nobody’s ever fallen asleep on him outside of a romantic relationship, especially not another guy. But Dorian’s completely out, and probably deserves a little physical affection after the past couple of days, so he shakes off the feeling and lets himself relax.

 

Around eleven, he nudges Dorian awake. “Hey,” he says, “Dorian. Let’s get you to bed.”

 

Dorian groans into his t-shirt and mumbles something unintelligible, wraps an arm around Cullen’s waist. Cullen’s stomach twists oddly.

 

“No, hey,” Cullen says, “come on. You’ll wake up sore if you sleep like this.”

 

Dorian mumbles something else, then looks up at Cullen, blinking sleepily. “Oh,” he says. “Hello.”

 

“Hi,” Cullen says softly. “Are you going to let me get you into bed?”

 

Dorian’s eyes flutter closed for a moment. Cullen feels the heat of Dorian’s breath through his t-shirt as he sighs. “Fine,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

 

Cullen helps Dorian stand, and Dorian staggers mostly unaided to his room. He collapses onto his bed, shoving at the covers clumsily. Cullen resists the urge to help him. He thinks tucking his flatmate in might exceed his quota of weird intimate gestures for the evening.

 

“Cullen,” Dorian says, reaching out to catch his arm before he leaves. He looks up at Cullen, his eyes dark and glazed with sleep. “Thank you.”

 

“It’s no problem,” Cullen says. Dorian squeezes his hand and lets go.

 

\---

 

Cullen steps out of the elevator and freezes.

 

Dorian’s kissing someone in the doorway to the flat. He’s up on his toes, because this guy is huge. The biggest guy Cullen’s seen in his life: has to be close to seven feet tall, shoulders almost cartoonishly wide. His biceps are as thick around as Cullen’s thighs, at least, and he has the most intimidating set of horns Cullen’s seen on any Qunari.

 

He has his hands resting on Dorian’s waist, strangely delicate for such a behemoth of a man, and for some unknown reason that knocks something inside Cullen out of place. Cold curls in his stomach, twisting into knots, and Cullen is suddenly and irrationally furious.

 

He clears his throat as he approaches, folds his arms over his chest. Dorian pulls back from the kiss and looks at him and his eyes are dark and shining, his mouth red, and Cullen wants to – he wants to –

 

“Oh, hello, Cullen,” Dorian says. “Don’t mind us. Bull will be off in a moment.”

 

Cullen wants to tear something apart.

 

“Cullen, huh?” The guy steps back, not putting space between him and Dorian, exactly, but making the way they’re standing more appropriate for public, and holds out his hand for Cullen to shake. “I’m the Iron Bull. It’s good to finally meet you, Dorian’s told me a lot about you.”

 

Cullen just stares at his hand. It’s as huge as the rest of him. Cullen has the absurd thought that the Iron Bull could probably crush his head in one hand, no problem.

 

“Really?” he says, and is that his voice? Is this really how he feels? He watches himself from a distance as he doesn’t shake the Iron Bull’s hand, instead looks at Dorian and says, “He hasn’t told me anything about you.”

 

The Iron Bull chuckles and it comes from deep in his chest. He drops his hand, slides it instead around Dorian’s waist; Cullen shoves his fists deep in his pockets. 

 

“Honestly, I’m not surprised,” the Iron Bull says. “A ‘Vint and a Qunari? What would people say?” He says this last part in a voice that is clearly supposed to be an imitation of Dorian’s smooth accent, and bumps Dorian’s hip lightly with his. Dorian rolls his eyes in a way Cullen’s seen dozens of times before, directed at himself. 

 

“Right,” Cullen says flatly. “If you’re done..? I’d like to get into my flat some time this week, thanks.”

 

Bull raises an eyebrow, but steps back from the door and away from Dorian entirely. Cullen pushes past without saying another word, goes straight to his room to change out of his uni clothes, and to avoid Dorian and the Iron Bull’s goodbyes.

 

He doesn’t even feel awkward or embarrassed anymore – he’s just pissed. The Iron Bull obviously isn’t one of Dorian’s hook ups. Even if he started as one, he’s not anymore; he’s been around long enough to have ‘heard a lot about’ Cullen.

 

(And what does that mean, anyway? What has Dorian been telling the Iron Bull about him? That he’s a hermit who only ever leaves the house to go to class? That he has no idea how to have fun? That he’s ridiculous easy to make fun of, and blushes at the drop of a hat?)

 

He kicks his shoes off, and they thud against the wall. The Iron Bull is so much bigger than Dorian, and Cullen hates that. Is that really what Dorian’s into? Some great hulking idiot that can push him around, manhandle him, tell him what to do? Cullen’s fingers slip where he’s unbuttoning his shirt, and a button flies off to disappear under the furniture somewhere.

 

How long have they been seeing each other, anyway? How long has Dorian been hiding this from him? A couple of weeks? A month? Longer? Cullen thought they were friends, thought Dorian might at least let him know there was someone new in his life, that his latest hook up had turned a little more serious.

 

He can still here Dorian and the Iron Bull’s voices at the door. He can hear the Iron Bull’s low rumble of a laugh and knows that they’re laughing at him.

 

There’s some part of Cullen that knows he’s being ridiculous. A tiny part of his conscious telling him it’s not that deep, it doesn’t matter, why does he even care? If he was a normal person he wouldn’t care about this. If he was a normal person he would be happy that his friend – his best friend, if he’s being honest with himself – has found someone he actually likes enough to stick around for more than one night.

 

Cullen’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear the apartment door close. And then Dorian’s pushing his bedroom door open, and Cullen’s standing shirtless in his sweatpants, and his first thought is Maker, he must look so scrawny and weak, tiny in comparison to Bull’s ridiculous bulk.

 

“Do you mind?” he spits.

 

“Yes, actually.” Dorian’s mouth is twisted into an expression Cullen’s never seen on him before. “What is wrong with you?”

 

“What’s wrong with me?” Cullen hears the incredulous tone in his voice even as he knows he’s the one being irrational. “You’re the one blocking the apartment door to make out with your ridiculous body builder boyfriend.”

 

Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. “Do you even hear yourself?  _ My ridiculous body builder boyfriend? _ What, are you jealous?”

 

“You make out with random dudes all over our apartment,” Cullen says. “I can’t even cook anymore because I don’t know if you’ve been fucking on the kitchen counter.”

 

“I didn’t complain when you and Evie were all over each other. I don’t want to see that hetero shit any more than you want to see my gay shit.”

 

“It’s not –“ Cullen begins, then realises that he’s started to shout, and cuts himself off abruptly. He lowers his voice. “Okay. No. You’re right. I’m being an asshole. I’m sorry.”

 

“Yes, you are.” Dorian squints at him. “Do you have a problem with me sleeping with other guys?”

 

“No!” Cullen runs both hands through his hair, frustrated. “You know I don’t care about that.”

 

“Right,” Dorian says, jaw set. “Of course you don’t.” He sighs and turns away. “I can’t be here right now. I’m going to Bull’s to cool off.”

 

Cullen’s stomach drops. He knows he had no reason to treat the Iron Bull that way, taking out his own irrational anger on the closest person that wasn’t Dorian. Part of him – a big part – wants to ask Dorian to stay.

 

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and says, “Okay. Okay.” There’s a long moment where neither of them say anything, and then he says, “I really am sorry, Dorian. I shouldn’t have behaved like that.”

 

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Dorian says. On his way out the door he stops, turns back. “And you’ll be okay with me sleeping with Bull as long as we do it as his place and not ours, right?”

 

And that hits Cullen squarely in the centre of his chest, almost knocking the breath out of him. Because no, he realises, he does  _ not _ feel okay about Dorian sleeping with the Iron Bull, no matter where they do it. And he has no good reason to feel this way, no idea why the thought of Dorian with Bull – with any man – makes his stomach turn and his heart sink and his fists clench.

 

Being careful not to show how much Dorian’s words affected him, he says, “It’s none of my business what you do when you’re at someone else’s place.”

 

Dorian nods. He leaves without saying anything else. Cullen stands in the middle of his room, still in the same spot he was when Dorian came in, and listens to Dorian leave.

 

He waits a good sixty seconds after he hears the door close. Then he drops face down on his bed, buries his face in his pillow and yells wordlessly.

 

He spends the rest of the afternoon trying his hardest not to think about Dorian and the Iron Bull. He sits on the couch with his readings or the week in a stack on the coffee table, one of the textbooks open in his hands, and does not think about the Bull’s huge hands on Dorian’s hips, on his jaw, in his hair. He sits at his desk with his laptop open and his emails pulled up on the screen and does not think about Dorian kissing the bull, doesn’t think about Dorian’s lips on the Bull’s and his hands on the Bull’s horns and his legs spread so he can sit astride the Bull’s thighs. He cooks dinner for himself and doesn’t think about the Bull tearing Dorian’s clothes off and throwing him on a bed and crawling on top of him and –

 

He eats watching television and doesn’t think about Dorian lying naked in some bed across the city, about his gold skin, the muscles in his arms and shoulders, the cut of his hip or the curve of his back.

 

He feels guilty for being such a dick to the Iron Bull. He feels guilty for making Dorian feel like he can’t be himself around him. He feels guilty for being so uncomfortable whenever Dorian has a guy over lately. Then he feels guilty for feeling guilty rather than doing anything about it. 

 

Mostly, he wants to go to bed, sleep it off, see if he feels a little less awful about the whole situation in the morning. But he knows that, most likely, when he goes to bed he will lie awake for hours, and with the quiet of the apartment he’ll just… keep not thinking about Dorian.

 

\--- 

 

There’s a knock on his door. Dorian’s signature three sharp raps. Usually, Dorian won’t bother waiting for an answer before barging in, his knock more of a ‘get decent quick’ courtesy than anything else, but not today.

 

“Yeah?” Cullen calls, and looks up. Dorian pushes his door open, only half way, and stands there, his hand still on the door handle.

 

“Hello,” he says.

 

“Hi,” Cullen says.

 

“Can I come in?”

 

“Um,” Cullen says. “Sure?”

 

Dorian comes the rest of the way into Cullen’s room, stands just inside the doorway with his arms crossed. “So,” he says.

 

Cullen puts his laptop down and moves so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, facing Dorian. “Yeah.”

 

A long silence stretches between the two of them. Cullen rubs at the back of his neck.

 

“How’s the Iron Bull?” he says eventually, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

 

Dorian doesn’t seem to notice that it was a dumb thing to say, though, because he smiles a little, just the corner of his mouth pulling up slightly. “He’s fine. He wanted me to tell you he’s sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

 

Cullen makes an awkward “ha!” sound. “He’s not the one who should be apologising,” he says. “He’s not the one who acted like a prick.”

 

“I agree,” Dorian says, but his voice isn’t cold.

 

“I really am sorry,” Cullen says quickly. “Look, Dorian – I don’t want to make any excuses. I was a total ass. I shouldn’t have behaved like that, but I did, and I’m sorry. I’ll apologise to the Iron Bull in person, if – if he feels okay seeing me again, after my… tantrum.”

 

Dorian’s eyes are soft. “Thank you,” he says. “I’ll let him know. He’ll forgive you, though. He’s that kind of person.”

 

“That’s,” Cullen says, focusing on not letting his breath catch in his throat at the fondness in Dorian’s voice. “That’s good. I’m glad. He seems like a good guy.”

 

“He is.”

 

Cullen swallows against the odd lump in his throat. “What about you?”

 

“What about me?” Dorian frowns.

 

“Will you forgive me?”

 

Dorian’s face softens again. “Yes, Cullen. I forgive you.”

 

Cullen feels the weight on his shoulders lift a little, even as his stomach curls with something like homesickness and the rock in his chest anchors him to the ground. He stands suddenly, wanting to hug Dorian, but instead stands there, not knowing what to do with his hands.

 

“I was worried,” he admits, unable to look straight at Dorian. “That, I don’t know. That I’d ruined things.”

 

Dorian smiles, properly this time – his wry, slanted smile, the corner of his eyes crinkling in that way that always makes Cullen feel – something. “You? Ruin things? I think you’re overestimating your importance somewhat,” he says, and thank the Maker, if Dorian’s back to making sarcastic half-insults at Cullen things can’t have gone too wrong.

 

“I don’t know,” Cullen says, relaxing further. “You’re the one who’s always wondering what you’d do without me.”

 

“Am I?” Dorian says. “Well. I never did have very good taste.”

 

Cullen bites down on his grin. “So… friends?”

 

Something flashes behind Dorian’s eyes, but it’s gone so quick Cullen can’t tell if it was good or bad. “Yeah,” Dorian says. “Friends.”


	4. Chapter 4

Somehow, Cullen has been convinced to come out for a drink with Dorian’s friends for a second time in a month. It took considerably less prodding than last time – Cullen has at least met them already, that’s the hardest part over with – but he still had to mentally prepare himself, spend ten minutes in front of the bathroom mirror telling himself _nobody cares as much as you care_ over and over. Now he’s feeling, well, not terrible about it. Cautiously optimistic, maybe.

 

The thing is, though, that he is mentally prepared for a very specific situation: the same group of people as last time. He wasn’t expecting the Iron Bull to be seated at the table next to Varric, horns and all.

 

“You didn’t tell me he was going to be here,” he hisses to Dorian as they walk over.

 

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” Dorian says coolly. “You did say you don’t have a problem with him.”

 

“I don’t,” Cullen says, trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince Dorian. “I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice guy. I just – I don’t know.”

 

“You’ll be fine,” Dorian tells him, and Cullen can’t say anything else. They reach the table, and there’s a round of hellos from everyone. Varric has apparently assigned Cullen a nickname, ‘Curly,’ which – okay, it’s helping Cullen’s anxiety a bit, makes him feel more like a part of things, even if he’s not sure how he feels about the nickname itself.

 

Cullen sits, next to Blackwall this time. He doesn’t watch as Dorian leans down to kiss the Iron Bull on the cheek before sitting next to him.

 

“How’s it going?” Blackwall asks him, and Cullen manages to hold a (somewhat stilted) conversation about his studies and Blackwall’s work. Only, he’s so hyper aware of the Iron Bull’s presence that he’s only halfway paying attention.

 

He hasn’t seen the Iron Bull since The Incident. He hasn’t apologised, not in person, anyway – he’s apologised to Dorian, told him to pass the sentiment on, and Dorian’s told him that the Iron Bull is fine with it, that he’s totally forgiven him, but Cullen can’t stop thinking about it. And he can’t lie to himself, he’s a little bit pissed that the Iron Bull is here this evening, that Dorian didn’t even think to warn him.

 

He really doesn’t feel comfortable with the Iron Bull being there. And it’s less of an uncertain sort of _I’m not sure how I feel about him…_ discomfort than it is just straight up anger. He can hear the Iron Bull’s rumbling laugh even as he’s trying to keep his whole focus on talking to Blackwall. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dorian put his hand on the Iron Bull’s arm as he leans close to tell him something, and leave it there.

 

He tries to ignore it. Tries to pretend he doesn’t have this intense, unfounded dislike for the guy. But it’s hard, when every time he hears Dorian’s bright laugh he looks up to see it’s the Iron Bull that’s told the joke. What’s he saying that’s so funny, anyway? Or is Dorian just doing that awful, obnoxious thing people do when they’re really into someone, and laughing at every other thing he says?

 

The Iron Bull says something Cullen can’t make out, and the entire other end of the table erupts in laughter. “Cullen,” Dorian calls, “Cullen, you need to hear this,” and Cullen has to put all his unfounded angst aside, not wanting to show how much he dislikes the Iron Bull, not when Dorian’s so clearly into him. So he leans towards them to listen to Bull’s story, laughs in all the right places, asks the right questions. And when he looks at Dorian, Dorian’s looking back at him, an unreadable smile on his face.

 

Cullen watches Dorian get steadily drunker over the course of the evening, laughing too loudly, flirting outrageously with anyone who speaks to him, and slowly listing sideways into the Iron Bull. Cullen manages to keep himself in check for the most part, but then Dorian announces, “Right! Who’s coming dancing?” and he feels himself die a little on the inside.

 

“Dancing sounds frigging great,” Sera says, who is probably drunker than Dorian. “Doesn’t dancing sound frigging great?”

 

“Sure,” says Adaar. “Why not?”

 

“Not for me, thanks,” Blackwall says. “I was thinking about heading home, anyway. There’s leftover pizza in my fridge and it’s calling my name.”

 

Josephine, Cole and Varric also decline. The Iron Bull grins widely at Dorian. “Funny,” he says, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

 

“Cullen?” Dorian asks, looking at him hopefully. Cullen wants to scoff. Does Dorian not know him at all? Has the alcohol successfully dulled his sense so much that he’s entirely forgotten the kind of person Cullen is?

 

“I don’t think so,” Cullen says, finally. “I’ll just be something of a downer, I’m afraid.”

 

“Come on, Cullen,” the Iron Bull says, eyeing him up in a way Cullen doesn’t know how he feels about. “It’ll be fun.”

 

“Really,” Cullen says. “It’s not my scene. Thank you.” And he finds himself on his feet.

 

He walks home alone, quietly fuming. He’d come to the pub tonight under the impression that they would be having a few quiet drinks, then leaving – together. Dorian had assured him he wouldn’t leave him to fend for himself. Yet here he is, walking home without Dorian, who knows full well that clubs aren’t Cullen’s thing, are in fact the very opposite of Cullen’s thing, and likely to tempt him into incredibly stupid actions on top of that.

 

Cullen wonders if Dorian had suggested dancing in order to get Cullen out of there. After all, he probably wants to go home with the Iron Bull. He might be afraid, what with how Cullen acted towards the Iron Bull the first time he met him, that Cullen would cause some sort of scene. As if Cullen would do anything in public that might in any way draw the attention of literally anyone.

 

His brain supplies him with a very detailed image of Dorian, in some dark, sweaty club somewhere, grinding against the Iron Bull as bass heavy dance music plays at a near deafening volume. He imagines that Dorian does a very good impression of an exotic dancer, can practically see the rhythmic way his hips move, the sultry look on his face.

 

And then his brain changes tack. Cullen gets a sudden image of Dorian dancing on _him_ , his hands on Dorian’s hips as Dorian moves against him, Dorian’s wicked smile, his eyes boring into Cullen’s.

 

\---

 

It’s one in the morning, and Cullen’s still awake. It’s not the worst his insomnia has been, not by far – one a.m. is still a relatively civil time to go to bed, Cullen thinks, and sometimes he’ll stay up until one or so studying or watching movies with Dorian. He’s been in bed since midnight, so that’s only one hour of lying awake, listening to the creaking in the walls of the old block of flats and the engines of the cars driving by outside.

 

His brain is still buzzing with things he’s trying not to think about. One thing in particular, really: Dorian.

 

It feels weird, putting it like that, rather than ‘the fight he and Dorian had last week,’ which he supposes was the catalyst for all the thinking. But he’s not thinking about the fight, not really. He’s thinking about the weird, sick feeling he gets when he thinks about Dorian with the Iron Bull – okay, not just the Iron Bull; he gets that same sick feeling when he thinks about Dorian with _any_ man.

 

He’d ignored it before, when he’d started feeling queasy when Dorian had a guy over. He can’t ignore it any more: he’d felt that awful mockery of nausea in the pit of his stomach when he’d seen Dorian kissing the Iron Bull, and he’d let it crawl up his throat and out of his mouth, manifesting in his own horrid behaviour.

 

He’s ashamed of the way he acted, really, he is. But when he thinks about it, that feeling comes back, curling in his gut, making him want to lash out.

 

It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t affecting his friendship with Dorian. Cullen doesn’t have many friends; he can’t afford to lose any. And he likes Dorian, a whole lot – likes his wit and his sarcasm, how passionate he is about his studies, how he’ll deny being a good person to the ends of Thedas but turn around and do something sweet for Cullen just because. He likes sitting in the quiet of the early morning with Dorian, drinking coffee while Dorian does the crossword. He likes sharing the couch at three in the morning when Dorian’s drunk and Cullen can’t sleep. Maker help him, he even likes the flirting.

 

He can’t think of a single reason as to why he feels the way he does. Except – fuck.

 

The thought’s been in the back of his mind since the fight. _“Do you have a problem with me sleeping with other guys?”_ Dorian had asked, and Cullen didn’t think he did – didn’t think he had a problem with anyone’s sexual preferences, didn’t see it as anything remotely close to an issue. But maybe he does? Maybe he just didn’t have to think about it too hard, before, and now he does, and… Maker, is he homophobic?

 

He turns it over in his brain. He feels ill – actually physically nauseous – when he thinks about Dorian with another man. He feels restless and anxious and angry when one of those men are in the apartment with him. And he’s started treating the guys Dorian brings home like they’ve done something wrong just by virtue of being intimate with Dorian.

 

Maker. He is. He’s homophobic.

 

He breathes out shakily, still staring up at the ceiling, and feels the all too familiar guilt come creeping in. What the fuck is wrong with him? Has he always felt like this, just covered it up because he lives in a place where being gay or bi or even transgender isn’t questioned? He doesn’t think he has – he never felt this awful around any of his other gay friends. But maybe that’s because he never lived with any of them. Maybe it’s always been there inside him, dormant, slowly poisoning his brain until it became too much and spilled over.

 

He doesn’t want to be homophobic. He doesn’t want to hate his friend, someone he cares about, for something he can’t control. He doesn’t want to hate people for having the audacity to fall in love. He doesn’t want to hate people, full stop.

 

\---

 

He calls Mia the next day, sitting on his bed right after he gets home from uni, before Dorian’s due to get home.

 

Mia answers the phone on the first ring. “Cullen,” she says. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine,” he says.

 

“Are you sure? I can’t remember the last time you called me. I can’t even remember the last time you picked up when I called you.”

 

“I always pick up,” Cullen frowns. “We talk every month.”

 

“Yeah,” Mia says, “after I leave you like five voice messages and twenty texts.”

 

“Okay, I…. see your point. But really, I’m fine. There’s no – no crisis, or anything.”

 

“Well, that’s good,” Mia says. “I still don’t believe everything’s fine, though. You wouldn’t be calling me if there wasn’t something going on.”

 

Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He doesn’t know how to word this.

 

“It’s not a big deal. If this isn’t a good time –“

 

“Cullen. What’s wrong?”

 

“…I don’t know,” Cullen admits. “I’m… confused, I suppose.”

 

Mia doesn’t say anything for a few moments. Words start welling up in Cullen’s chest, not ones that have any kind of relevance, just ones that want to fill a silence he has no idea what to do with. Finally she says, “Go on.”

 

“I don’t,” Cullen tries, but he doesn’t know what words should go next. “I think –“ But that’s not right either, is it? “Do you think it’s possible to – to – to have been something your entire life without knowing?”

 

“Yes,” Mia says immediately. “Absolutely. People discover new things about themselves all the time.”

 

“Right,” Cullen says. “So if I was – if I had thought one way all my life, only to discover my actual feelings were completely different…?” Cullen trails off, unsure of where to go next.

 

“Totally normal,” Mia says. “Why?”

 

Fuck. “I’ve been… having these feelings,” Cullen says. He pauses. Has to force the words out. “About… about Dorian.”

 

“Yes?” Mia sounds like she’s trying very hard not to say something.

 

“I… I don’t want to be having these feelings,” Cullen says, all in a rush. “They’re just happening. And I feel awful about them, and I don’t know how to stop them, and –“

 

“Cullen, slow down,” Mia says. “Why don’t you tell me when you started feeling like this?”

 

Cullen puts a hand over his face even though there’s no one there to see him. “I don’t know. A few months ago, maybe?”

 

Mia doesn’t say anything, just makes an encouraging hum through the phone.

 

“Dorian… he’s been bringing guys home,” Cullen says. “And I swear I never used to have a problem with it, but I think maybe that’s because I never actually met any of them? But I got home from that dinner we had and walked in on Dorian and this guy and I thought for a moment I was actually going to throw up.”

 

“Oh, Cullen,” Mia says.

 

Now he’s started talking about it he can’t stop, the words falling out of his mouth before he can think about them too hard.

 

“And I hate every single guy he brings home, and I always feel literally, physically ill when I think about them together, and I can’t _stop_ thinking about him with whichever guy he’s brought home. And last week I was really awful to this new guy he’s been seeing, and I acted like a total jerk, and we kind of talked about it but not really? And now Dorian’s out all the time and I completely understand because I’ve been acting really immature and awful, but I don’t want to lose him and I just, I just want to stop feeling like this.” He gasps, feeling like he’s just run a marathon. “How do I stop feeling like this?”

 

“Cullen,” Mia says softly. “You don’t have to stop feeling like this. Why do you think the way you feel is so wrong?”

 

Cullen splutters, shocked. “Because… being homophobic is… bad?”

 

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. And then Mia is laughing, long and hard.

 

“What?” Cullen says weakly. “What – what’s so funny?”

 

“Andraste’s tits, Cullen, you oblivious fucking walnut,” Mia says through laughter. “You’re not _homophobic._ You have a crush.”

 

Cullen’s mind shorts out for a second, going suddenly, totally blank.

 

“I – um – what?”

 

“You have a crush on Dorian,” Mia repeats. “You’re not homophobic. You’re jealous.”

 

“Wait,” Cullen says, “Can we – I’m sorry – can we start again? Because I’m not – I’m not gay.”

 

“Bi, then, whatever.”

 

“I’m not into men, Mia. I’ve never been into men.”

 

“Look,” Mia says, “Listen. You like Dorian.”

 

“Well, yes, but not like –“

 

“You like having him around? You like spending time with him?”

 

“Of course, but that doesn’t mean –“

 

“And theoretically, you don’t mind that he’s attracted to men?”

 

“I don’t – I didn’t.”

 

“And have you ever felt grossed out by the concept of someone being gay before?”

 

“Never. Which is why it’s so weird that –“

 

“I told you, you’re not homophobic,” Mia stresses. “So you don’t get grossed out by gay people, but you feel sick when you think about Dorian with other men. I’m curious. When you say you think about Dorian with other men – what do you mean? What do you think about?”

 

“I don’t know,” Cullen says, although he totally does. “I don’t – you know. Them… kissing. Doing stuff. I don’t –“

 

“So you think about Dorian getting it on.”

 

“No! It’s not like that. And it’s not like I want to think about –“

 

“-Dorian having sex with other men? As in, men that aren’t you?”

 

“Maker, Mia, that’s not what I meant and you know it.”

 

“Maybe,” Mia says, and he can practically hear her shrug over the phone. “Or maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know what you mean.”

 

“What does that even mean?” Cullen says. “Mia, I’m thirty one. If I was bi, I think I would have figured it out by now.”

 

“Why?” Mia says. “There are people who get to sixty and then realise they’re bi. Some people don’t even know until after that.”

 

“But – but I’ve never thought of men like that before.”

 

“Are you sure? Maybe you just haven’t noticed,” Mia says. “Or maybe you just never met a guy you liked enough. Maybe you have a really specific taste when it comes to men. Maker knows I do. Or,” she says, “sexuality is fluid. Maybe you weren’t bi, but now you are. It doesn’t matter that you’ve never thought about it before. If it’s how you feel now, then it’s how you feel.”

 

“But,” Cullen says weakly. “But…”

 

“But?”

 

“I don’t know,” Cullen says. “I don’t know, I… honestly, I’m more confused now than I was when I called you, so thanks for that, I guess.”

 

“You’re welcome!” Mia chirps. “Hey, I have to go, but – just think about it. You know? You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just think about it.”

 

“Right,” Cullen says. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

 

“Love you, bro,” Mia says.

 

“Yeah,” Cullen says, “I love you too.” He hangs up and tosses his phone onto the bed. “Ugh.”


	5. Chapter 5

So Cullen might be kind of sort of a little bit bi. Maybe. Mia definitely thinks he is. Cullen’s not so sure.

 

He’s pretty certain he’s never been attracted to a man before. Pretty sure. Now there’s a seed of doubt in his mind, though, and he can’t stop poking at it. He finds himself distracted by it, thinking about it at very inopportune times. 

 

He almost misses his bus stop because he’s too busy watching an objectively attractive guy on the bus and wondering if it’s actually objective or if he’s really attracted to him and just – subconsciously covering it up or something. Or maybe the way he feels attraction towards guys is different to the way he feels towards women? Maybe he doesn’t notice it because he can’t recognise the feeling of wanting when it’s not directed at women?

 

He zones out of one of his lectures and misses out an entire section of notes. He thinks about asking the guy next to him if he could borrow his notes to copy, but not only is he doing his usual half-conscious worrying and what-ifs, he’s also noticing the square of his jawline and that his eyes are almost the same shade of grey Dorian’s are and wondering if kissing him would be any different from kissing a woman, and if so, how? 

 

“Are you quite alright?” Dorian asks him, one Thursday night when they’re trying to decide on a movie to watch. “You’ve gone all quiet.”

 

Cullen was watching Dorian’s mouth move instead of listening to what he was saying, and when he realises this his face automatically starts to prickle with embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he says. He goes to put his hand on the back of his neck but catches himself half way there. “Just thinking.”

 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Dorian says automatically. “Is there anything in particular on your mind?”

 

Cullen can feel the words bubbling in his chest and knows that all he needs to do is open his mouth and he would be telling Dorian everything that’s been running through his mind:  _ You, actually. You know how I’ve been acting so weird lately? Well, I started feeling ill when I think about you being with a man, and I thought it was homophobia, but it turns out I might just be jealous, and that just opens a whole new bag of nugs. _

 

Cullen must be making some kind of face broadcasting his discomfort, because Dorian waves a hand and says, “Really, I meant it, don’t hurt yourself.”

 

And then, a few days later, Cullen finds himself in his room alone after midnight with his headphones in and the volume turned way down and literal gay porn on his laptop screen.

 

It had been kind of hard to pick a video. Cullen doesn’t watch much porn to begin with – he’s never been attracted to any of the ‘talent’, and he always finds himself with a weird case of second hand embarrassment from how bad the acting is. But he figures – what better way to figure out if he’s actually into dudes, right?

 

All of the stills on the website just kind of look the same, and he wastes half an hour scrolling through endless pages of links with titles like  _ tattooed twink pounded by buff bear daddy _ . He’s not even sure what half of those words mean. Eventually he just picks a video at random from the page he’s on,  _ blond with bubble butt gets fucked! _ Which, okay.

 

The video skips over all the awkward porn acting in the introduction and gets straight to the action. The blond guy (who does, indeed, have a bubble butt) is on his knees on the bed, hands spreading himself open as a larger, bearded guy buries his face in his ass, and Cullen feels himself heat. Rimming isn’t really anything he’s thought about before, but the blond guy is making these noises, back bowing as he clutches at the sheets, and Cullen is definitely thinking about it now.

 

Oh. Oh, okay.

 

Cullen watches as the bearded guy leans over the blond, thick cock sliding against the blond’s ass, and twists his fingers through his hair, turning his head so he can kiss him messily. Cullen swallows. He can feel himself getting hard. He clenches his fists, pressing them against the outsides of his thighs. On screen, the bearded guy is two fingers deep in the blond and things are advancing fast, the blond begging in a broken voice for the bearded guy to hurry up and fuck him.

 

Cullen knows he should be having some kind of epiphany right now regarding his sexuality, maybe having a little more of a freak out, but he can’t bring himself to care about that right now, being far more preoccupied with his own dick.

 

He palms at himself through his underwear as the bearded guy slides inside the blond. The blond is moaning long and breathy as the bearded guy pushes in, “oh, oh,” and reaches down to grab his own dick before the bearded guy grabs him by the hand and pins it against the bed. Cullen feels his dick twitch and slides his hand under the waistband of his underwear to stroke himself lightly.

 

The bearded guy is talking now, typical porn dialogue, “fuck yeah baby” and “take it” and “just like that.” Cullen doesn’t fully register it, too focused on the way the blond is throwing his head back and twisting against the sheets and moaning bitten off little noises into the pillow. Does it really feel that good? The guy looks like he’s having some kind of religious experience, writhing underneath the bearded man, hair matted to his forehead with sweat and pink in the face and all down the front of his chest, mouth open in pleasure.

 

Cullen closes his hand around himself, strokes firm and slow, letting himself feel it.

 

He finds himself wondering how Dorian likes to do this. If he likes to be the one on his knees on the bed, maybe on his back, shaking apart as someone fucks him; if he prefers to be the one doing the fucking. He thinks about Dorian lying on his back, his usually carefully coiffed hair a mess, head tossed back and sweat beading at his temples. On the screen, the blond is  crying out, voice getting louder and louder as he rocks back against the dick in his ass, and Cullen can’t help but wonder what kinds of noises Dorian would make, if he would be loud like this or if he’s all quiet noises and swallowed moans. He tightens his hand on his cock, chewing on his bottom lip, thinking about his hands tightening on Dorian’s hips, about leaving bruises on Dorian’s dark skin.

 

The bearded man drops his head and mouths at the blond’s shoulder, thrusts turning short and violent. Cullen thrusts up into his fist, noise in his chest threatening to burst out of his mouth, struggling to stay quiet. He remembers the purple mark left low on Dorian’s throat that night he walked in on him and the elf, how it had lingered for weeks, and wonders what Dorian’s skin would taste like.

 

The bearded guy makes a long noise deep in his throat and pulls out of the blond, grabbing his cock, and comes in ropes all over the blond guy’s ass. Cullen grits his teeth and closes his eyes, stroking faster, feeling the heat in his gut building fast, sparks flying up his spine. And he’s picturing Dorian’s hand on him instead of his own, Dorian’s thumb pushing at the head of his dick, stroking over the tip, and fuck, fuck, that’s good. Dorian’s mouth against his hip, sucking and biting as he strokes Cullen off, looking up through thick eyelashes, his eyes dark.

 

And then his brain decides to send him and image of Dorian sliding one slim finger carefully into his ass, and Cullen chokes on a moan as he comes over his fist.

 

He lies there for a few minutes, panting. So. Bi, then. Definitely bi.

 

And he just jerked off thinking about Dorian. His flatmate. Who he sees every day. Who has a boyfriend who could probably break Cullen in half with one finger.

 

Well, shit.

 

\--- 

 

Cullen can’t meet Dorian’s eyes. Every time he even glances at him, he gets a flash of Dorian on his knees in front of him, Dorian with his mouth open, with his hands on Cullen’s hips, his thighs, his ass.  _ I jerked off thinking of you, _ Cullen thinks as he sits at the kitchen table, watching Dorian do the crossword. Can Dorian tell? He starts to turn pink every time Dorian so much as looks at him. It feels like he’s broadcasting it to the whole world.

 

“Are you okay?” Dorian asks him, right as he’s about to walk out the door to catch his bus. “You look a little flushed. Are you getting sick?”

 

“I’m fine,” Cullen says, a little strangled.

 

“Are you sure?” Dorian frowns. He puts the back of his hand to Cullen’s forehead and Cullen has to force himself not to jerk back. “Hmm,” Dorian says. “You don’t feel like you have a fever.”

 

“I told you,” Cullen says, “I’m fine. Just – didn’t get enough sleep last night, that’s all. You know that me and sleep don’t get along.”

 

“Hmm,” Dorian says again. “Let me give you a lift to uni, at least. I have to be there soon, there’s no point in making you take the bus.”

 

“Uh,” Cullen says, stalling to think of some excuse as to why he can’t be in the car with Dorian. He has someone to meet? No, Dorian wouldn’t believe that, he knows Cullen’s social life extends to him and the friends he’s introduced Cullen to and no further. He needs to pick something up on the way? No, Dorian will just insist on driving him to the store as well. “Uh,” Cullen says. “Okay. Thank you.”

 

“Of course,” Dorian says. “I just need to get my things, then we can go.”

 

Dorian’s car is one of the few things he has left from the privileged life he left behind. It’s a sleek black Lincoln, the kind you can see rich CEOs in expensive suits driving around the city center. Dorian had bought it with his parents’ money, but it’s in his  name , so when they cut him off, he got to keep it.

 

Cullen’s been in the passenger seat of Dorian’s car many times before. This time feels different. The interior feels smaller, more claustrophobic. He rolls his window down so he doesn’t feel like the space is so enclosed, but it doesn’t help. He’s too close to Dorian. He can smell his cologne. And Dorian keeps glancing sideways at him, like he knows there’s something going on with Cullen.

 

He struggles to make conversation with Dorian as they drive the fifteen minutes to campus. When they get there, he practically vaults out of Dorian’s car. “Thanks for the ride, I’ll see you tonight,” he calls, and half runs toward the lecture block he needs to be in. Great. Dorian definitely knows something is up, now.

 

He calls Mia again that evening, before Dorian gets home. He puts her on speaker while he rattles around the kitchen, throwing something together for dinner.

 

“So I think you were right,” Cullen opens with, as soon as Mia says hi.

 

“I’m always right,” Mia says. “This is you coming out to me, then?”

 

“I guess?” Cullen says. “I took your advice and I thought about it and yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m bi.”

 

“And..?”

 

“…fine. Yes. I have feelings for Dorian.”

 

“Aw,” Mia coos. “My baby brother, all grown up and coming to terms with his sexuality.”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Cullen says, chopping vegetables like he’s personally offended by them. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

 

“So what are you going to do now?” Mia says. “Are you going to tell him?”

 

“Wh – why would I do that?”

 

“Because… you… like… him..?”

 

“What does that have to do with anything? I’m pretty damn certain he doesn’t feel the same way.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Because,” Cullen says, and sighs. “I don’t know. He has a boyfriend, anyway, so it doesn’t even matter.”

 

“Oh. He does?”

 

“He does. Some brick shithouse of a guy. He, uh. He’s the one I was a dick to when I met him.”

 

“Well –“

 

“So I kind of had this revelation for nothing. This big, life-changing realisation, and now all I get to do with it is pine.”

 

“Don’t be like that, Cullen. At least you know now.”

 

Cullen breathes out. “I suppose. At least I know.”

 

\---

 

Cullen picks the movie: an old haunted house horror movie he’s heard good things about. He makes microwave popcorn, with butter and icing sugar – Dorian had called him a heathen the first time he had made it for one of their movie nights, and still refuses to admit that he likes it, but he eats more than his share anyway. Dorian pours himself a glass of wine, and Cullen grabs a bottle of ginger ale from the fridge, and they sit together on the couch with the bowl of popcorn between them.

 

They’ve done almost exactly this every Thursday night for almost the entire time they’ve lived together. Tonight, though, Cullen is overthinking it: his proximity to Dorian, how their hands brush when they both reach for the popcorn, the way Dorian slides down in his seat as he gets tipsy until his feet are touching Cullen’s. 

 

Cullen tries very hard to watch the movie and not Dorian. But when Dorian startles at a jump scare, then laughs at it, Cullen thinks it’s probably okay for him to look over. And when Dorian mutters something about how stupid the main characters are for staying in the house once they know for certain there’s something supernatural going on rather than leaving, Cullen glances at him. Eventually he’s only half watching the movie, too busy watching Dorian’s reactions out of the corner of his eye.

 

He finds himself stuck on Dorian’s jawline, wondering how it would feel to stroke his fingers along it, wondering how his skin tastes. The slight upward pull at the corner of his mouth from his amusement at the film – Cullen feels an awfully strong urge to lick it, the seam of his lips.  _ Stop it, _ he thinks.  _ Stop pining like a teenager with his first crush. It’s Dorian. _

 

But that’s the entire problem. It’s Dorian, clever and sarcastic and so seemingly sure of himself, who won’t leave the house without eyeliner and drinks too much and whose very favourite pastime seems to be teasing Cullen, and Cullen doesn’t want to want him, but he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i just wanted to say thank you to everyone who's left comments and kudos so far!! i wanted to reply to every comment but turns out the ol' bad brain won't let me do that for unknown anxiety reasons, but thank you so much, i appreciate every single one of you :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: pretty much the entire chapter takes place in a hospital. there's some description of minor injury. aaaand it's tropey as hell. stay safe!

Cullen’s still mostly awake when his phone rings around two in the morning, curled in his bed, fucking around on his laptop. He grabs blindly for his phone, lost somewhere in the blankets. He manages to find it right when it stops ringing.  _ You missed a call from Dorian at 2:06 AM. _

 

He frowns down at his phone. Dorian doesn’t usually call him in the small hours of the morning. Hasn’t ever, in fact; not even to ask for money for a cab ride home when he’s somewhere across town and has lost his wallet. (This example actually happened – Dorian got home just past six in the morning, waking Cullen up with his stumbling around the apartment, moaning about the state of his feet after walking for hours.) Cullen’s first instinct, of course, is to panic.

 

He’s about to return the call when his phone lights up again, Dorian’s name displayed on the caller ID.

 

“Dorian.” His voice is hoarse, and he has to clear his throat. “Are you okay?”

 

“Cullen,” says a gravelly voice that is decidedly not Dorian’s. “Sorry for waking you. It’s Bull.”

 

“I wasn’t asleep,” Cullen says, the worry in his throat spreading through his torso. “What’s wrong? Is Dorian alright?”

 

“Don’t freak out,” the Iron Bull says, his voice even. “Dorian’s alive. We’re at the hospital. Dorian’s asking for you.”

 

Cullen’s on his feet immediately. “I can be there in half an hour,” he says, tugging on the jeans he was wearing yesterday. “Is he – what happened?”

 

“He’s a fucking idiot, is what happened,” Bull says. “I don’t actually know exactly what happened. I wasn’t there. He called me to pick him up, I saw the state of him, I took him to the hospital. He got involved in some kind of fight. And he drank far too much, but that’s kind of a given with Dorian, isn’t it?”

 

“Right,” Cullen agrees. “I’ll – I’ll be there. Thanks for calling me.”

 

“No problem,” says the Iron Bull, and Cullen hangs up. He pulls a hoodie on over his t-shirt and calls a taxi, puts his shoes on, and then spends the five minutes it takes for the taxi to get there pacing around the apartment, alternating between worrying so hard he feels physically nauseous, and being so angry he can feel his pulse pound in his temples.

 

The ride takes far too long. The driver is blessedly asocial, only speaking to Cullen to greet him and to tell him the total.

 

The Iron Bull is waiting for Cullen on the footpath out in front of the emergency department, furiously smoking a cigarette. When Cullen gets out of the taxi he takes on last puff and throws the butt on the ground, grinding it out with the heel of his shoe.

 

“Cullen,” he says. “Thanks for coming.” His brow is furrowed and he looks sleep-deprived, under his eye a darker shade of grey than the rest of him. He’s wearing sweatpants, a pink t-shirt under his open hoodie.

 

“Thanks for calling,” Cullen replies, hands deep in his pockets. “Where is he?”

 

“Still in the E.R.,” the Iron Bull tells him. “Come on.”

 

Cullen hates hospitals. The artificial lights and the sharp smell of plastic and cleaning products covering up bile and blood give him a headache. He hasn’t been in one since he left Kirkwall. He’s glad he doesn’t have to wait in the triage room with all the stressed and angry people in pain – that might take him over the line from ‘uncomfortable’ to ‘too much.’

 

The Iron Bull leads him through a pair of double doors into the emergency department proper, a huge circular room with only curtains separating the beds from each other and the rest of the room.

 

The Iron Bull holds a curtain back for Cullen, and he steps into the little cubicle created by the curtains. Dorian is sitting up on the bed wearing a hospital gown. “Cullllllen,” he slurs. “You came!”

 

“I did,” Cullen says, and then, “Maker, Dorian, what did you do?” Because Dorian looks nothing less than completely fucked.

 

Both of his eyes are swollen nearly shut, the skin around them violent purple and yellow. His nose is all wrong, crooked and slanting to one side – the doctors have put gauze up both his nostrils to stop the bleeding, but his moustache is matted with dried blood. His bottom lip is puffy and split.

 

“I got in a fight,” Dorian says proudly. When he speaks, Cullen can see a dark space in his mouth where one of his upper premolars should be. “You should see the other guy.” He drops his voice. “I burned his eyebrows off.”

 

“Maker,” Cullen says again. “Can I ask why?”

 

“Because he was being a… being a… a  _ complete and utter cunt _ ,” Dorian says, in the voice that means he’s quoting something. “He called me a maleficar. I’m not a maleficar.” His mouth pulls down at the edges. “He ruined my face, Cullen. Because – because I’m a ‘Vint. And I have magic. And that means I must be a – a – a blood mage.” He laughs, high pitched and hysterical. “If I was he’d be fucked. Fucked! Because, Cullen, because, he hit me and I bled everywhere! Would have served him fucking right if I was.” He sighs. “But he ruined my face. They said they can’t do anything to fix my nose until I’ve sobered up.”

 

“Maker’s breath.” It feels like all Cullen can say. Dorian is so, so drunk; and he’s right, his face is fucking wrecked; and Cullen can’t quite piece the  story together but he thinks it has less to do with Dorian’s inability to swallow his pride and walk away from a fight and more to do with some drunk asshole’s prejudice against Tevinter, which means he can’t be as angry at Dorian as he wants to be, because it wasn’t his fault.

 

“Yeah,” the Iron Bull says. “So. Dorian. Now that Cullen’s here, will you please try to get some sleep?”

 

“I’m going to be so hungover,” Dorian laments. “So hungover, Bull.”

 

“I know, big guy,” the Iron Bull says. “But when you wake up, they can fix your nose for you. And probably give you some sweet painkillers, as well.”

 

“Cullen,” Dorian says seriously. “You’ll stay?”

 

“Of course I’ll stay,” Cullen says, eyeing up the uncomfortable looking chairs next to Dorian’s bed. He’s not going to get any sleep tonight. (But then, when does he ever?)

 

Dorian hums. “Too good for me,” he says. “See, Bull? What did I tell you? He’s too good for me.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, we all know the sun shines out of Cullen’s ass,” the Iron Bull says. But he’s smiling, and he does this weird deliberate blink in Cullen’s direction that Cullen thinks is maybe supposed to be a wink. “I’m gonna grab a coffee from the café. None of that machine shit. It’ll still be bad, but at least it’s drinkable. You want one?”

 

“Please,” Cullen says.

 

“Coming right up,” the Iron Bull says, and leaves, making sure the curtain is fully closed behind him.

 

The chairs are fake leather with a metal frame, the kind that squeak when you sit in them. Cullen sits in the one closest to the bed. Dorian looks at him with alcohol glazed eyes.

 

“Thank you,” he says. “For coming. And for not – you know – with Bull.”

 

“It’s fine,” Cullen says. “I don’t… hate him, or anything.”

 

“He’s a good person,” Dorian says emphatically. “An extraord… an ex… a really good person. He’s so nice.” He sighs. “You’re nice, too,” he says. “Wish you would…” he trails off.

 

“You wish I would..?” Cullen prompts.

 

Dorian closes his eyes. He doesn’t respond for a long time. Then he says, “I have to sleep. Or they won’t fix my face.”

 

“Sleep, then,” Cullen says. “I’ll be here.”

 

He sits next to Dorian’s bed and waits for the Iron Bull to get back with their coffees, listening to the noises of the hospital around him. The constant hum and beep of machines, the rattle of gurneys, the murmur of voices. Someone’s crying, not very far away.

 

He wonders if Dorian’s going to remember tonight, or if he’s going to wake up tomorrow with a hangover and a  blank space where a fistfight should be.

 

Dorian’s breathing evens out. Good. Maker knows there’s nothing worse than being awake for hours in a hospital bed with not a single thing to do. Cullen can’t imagine falling asleep out here in the emergency room is very easy, not with all the noise and the people constantly walking by; then again, Dorian is very drunk.

 

The curtains part, and Bull enters, carrying two cardboard coffee cups. “Here,” he says, handing one to Cullen. “I didn’t know how you take it.” He hands Cullen a tiny sealed milk cup, two single serve packets of sugar, and one of those little wooden stirring sticks. He doesn’t sit down. “He get to sleep alright?”

 

“I think so,” Cullen says. He takes the lid off his coffee cup and pours the milk in before tossing the plastic milk cup and both the sugars into the trash.

 

“Good. He sure as shit needs it.” The Iron Bull takes a mouthful of coffee and winces. “Ugh. Hospital coffee.” Cullen hums in agreement. There’s a pause, and then Bull says, “Hey, thanks for getting here so fast. I know he was fine when you got here, but he was pretty distraught when we first arrived.”

 

“I couldn’t have done anything else,” Cullen admits. “I mean. It’s Dorian.”

 

“I know what you mean,” the Iron Bull says. “He’s oddly lovable, for such an abrasive little shit.”

 

Cullen’s heart hurts. “He is, isn’t he?” He wishes the Bull wasn’t such an obviously good person. It would be so much easier to hate him if he hadn’t picked up Dorian’s call tonight and had left Dorian to walk home with a broken nose and a possible concussion. 

 

(Cullen wishes he was the one Dorian had thought to call first, wishes Dorian’s first instinct after being beaten to a pulp was to call Cullen, not this guy he hasn’t known longer than a month and a half.)

 

Bull looks like he wants to say something, but then seems to think better of it.

 

A little past seven in the morning and Cullen is on his third cup of coffee. The Bull is dozing in his chair. Dorian makes a weird gurgling sound, blinks at the ceiling, and groans.

 

Cullen’s been  awake all night, listening to Dorian’s laboured, open mouthed breathing, flicking through old magazines, and making awkward small talk with the Bull. He watches as Dorian shifts in the bed, frowning with his eyes closed. Finally, Dorian turns on his side, facing towards Cullen, and squints at him.

 

“Morning,” Cullen says.

 

“Ugh,” Dorian says. “Everything hurts. Can you turn the lights off?”

 

“I’m afraid not,” Cullen says. “You’re in the hospital. Bright lights are a compulsory part of the experience.”

 

Dorian groans again. “Explains why I feel so horrendous.” He closes his eyes. “Which parts are why I’m in hospital and which parts are just the hangover?”

 

“Um,” says Cullen, “How does your face feel?”

 

“Awful,” Dorian says. “Like I dove into concrete face first. Have they not given me any painkillers?”

 

“You were too drunk,” the Bull rumbles. Cullen starts – he had forgotten he was there. “Not really any painkillers they could give you that wouldn’t screw you up even more. They did give you this nifty nasal spray thing before you went to sleep, though.”

 

“Can I get another one?” Dorian asks. “It fucking  _ hurts _ . My entire face feels like someone’s been stepping on it. Repeatedly. In steel capped boots. And my head is pounding, and I can’t breathe through my nose, and I really want to throw up.”

 

“I don’t know what we can do about the pain,” Cullen says, “But I can find you something to throw up in?”

 

Dorian nods weakly. “Please.”

 

“I’ll do it,” the Bull says, getting to his feet. “I’ll find a nurse while I’m at it. See if we can get you something to help with your face.”

 

“Thank you,” Dorian says plaintively. He shifts so he’s on his back again. “Fuck. Do you think they have sunglasses at the gift shop? The lights really aren’t helping.”

 

“I’ll go check when the Bull gets back, if you like.”

 

“Thank you,” Dorian says again. He breathes deeply and holds it, face – what parts of it that aren’t purple and swollen – ashen. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Bull needs to hurry up.”

 

“I’m here,” the Bull says, parting the curtains. He’s carrying a stack of cardboard bowls. 

 

“Thank the Maker,” Dorian says, pushing himself up on his elbows and holding a hand out. “Please.”

 

The Bull passes him one of the bowls and Dorian immediately throws up into it. Cullen automatically goes to brush Dorian’s sweaty hair out of his face, then realises that it would probably hurt Dorian, and stops himself with his hand halfway raised.

 

“Ugh,” Dorian says, and spits. “Disgusting.” He makes a face, then winces. “Ow ow ow. Fuck.”

 

The curtains part again, revealing a nurse. “You’re awake,” he says. “I can take that. Unless you still need it?”

 

“No, I think I’ve gotten it out of my system,” Dorian says weakly.

 

The nurse whisks the bowl away. Dorian weakly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and grimaces. “Maker’s ass, what did I do to myself?”

 

“You don’t remember?” Cullen asks.

 

“I remember drinking,” Dorian says. “I assume that’s why I can’t remember anything else.”

 

“That, or the concussion,” the Bull says. “It’s probably hard to differentiate.”

 

Dorian blanches. “I didn’t drive, did I? Nobody else is hurt?”

 

“No,” the Bull says, “you didn’t drive. And it’s good to know that even drunk off your ass you still seem to have  _ some _ common sense. Not very much, though. Maybe a milligram.”

  
“Someone else did get hurt, though,” Cullen says. “You, uh. You told me you burned his eyebrows off.”

 

“…I got in a fight,” Dorian says. “Vishante kaffas, what was I thinking?”

 

“You said he was, um. Insinuating things about the kind of magic you practice?”

 

“Ah,” Dorian says. “That would do it.” He sighs. “At least I gave as good as I got. Maybe. If I burned his eyebrows off at the very least he’ll look utterly ridiculous for the next few weeks.”

 

\---

 

There’s a long wait for the doctor. Dorian spends most of it moaning about the pain he’s in, which, honestly, Cullen doesn’t blame him for. The nurse comes by and gives him some over the counter pain meds. Dorian’s bitching subsides somewhat into the occasional complaint about how he can’t breathe through his nose or how aching his eyes are.

 

The Bull gets them breakfast from the hospital café, after checking with the nurse that it’s okay for Dorian to eat: coffee for each of them (he remembers how Cullen takes it, which is both heartwarming and infuriating), a muffin for Cullen, a cup of muesli and yogurt for Dorian, and a toasted sandwich for himself. Dorian falls asleep again for a little around ten to the sound of Cullen and the Bull’s quiet conversation.

 

He wakes up when the doctor comes by, an hour or so later. It’s clear she’s already met the Bull, who addresses her by name, but she introduces herself to Cullen, and reintroduces herself to Dorian when Dorian tells her he can’t remember last night past his seventh glass of wine. “I’m glad you’re back with us, then,” she says. “You didn’t suffocate in the night, so that’s a good sign. There’s a chance we can manually realign your nose without invasive surgery. We’ll have to give you an x-ray, though – there’s a possibility you have other facial fractures, looking at the bruising.”

 

“That’s fun,” Dorian says. “You’re going to… what? Just shove my nose back into place while I’m still awake, is that it?”

 

“Pretty much,” the doctor says. “If we do, you’ll have a local anaesthetic to numb your face. And, of course, that’s only if your nose isn’t too broken – there’s still a chance we’ll have to operate.”

 

“Is a manual realignment likely to actually fix my nose?” Dorian asks. “I don’t mean so that I will be able to breathe through it again, I mean, will my nose look the same as it did before some asshole decided to kick me in the face?”

 

The doctor gives Dorian a slightly bemused smile. “Probably not,” she admits. “And the surgery option isn’t likely to, either. Just from the look of it I can tell you it’s probably not going to look the same without plastic surgery.”

 

“Fantastic,” Dorian sighs. “The one thing universal healthcare won’t pay for, no matter that a work of art has been mutilated. It’s times like these I wish I was – that my parents were a little more understanding.”

 

“You still have your cheekbones,” Cullen points out.

 

“Heh, yeah,” the Bull says. “It’s not like your nose was your only good feature.”

 

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” Dorian says.

 

The doctor leaves, and then it’s another bloody hour before the nurse comes back to take Dorian through for his x-ray. 

 

“The good news,” the x-ray technician tells Dorian after, “is that there are no other fractures in your face.”

 

“And there’s bad news, of course,” Dorian says.   
  


“Well – sort of. Your nose is broken in several places. It’s going to take minor surgery to reconstruct it properly – we can fit you in some point this afternoon. It’s a simple procedure, and you should be able to leave a few hours after you wake.”

 

“How is that only ‘sort of’ bad news?” Dorian says. “I should have taken more selfies. I didn’t appreciate my nose while I had it.”

 

“You’ll look fine, once the swelling goes down,” the technician says. “It won’t be perfectly straight, but it will be much better than it looks right now.”

 

“Well,” Dorian says slowly, “at least my nose will match my personality.”

 

Cullen snorts. The Bull bursts out laughing. Even the technician smiles. Dorian looks pleased with himself.

 

Then there’s more waiting, Dorian leaning slumped against the Bull for a while, his eyes closed, still hungover. Cullen tries not to look. He’s afraid something in his eyes will give him away.

 

\---

 

After the surgery, and strict aftercare instructions from the doctors, the Bull drives them home. Cullen sits in the back seat of the Bull’s truck, feeling out of place. Nobody says anything much. The Bull sings along with the radio under his breath.

 

He finds a parking spot surprisingly close to the apartment and gets out of the car to open the passenger side door for Dorian.

 

Cullen frowns. “Hang on. Isn’t Dorian staying with you?”

 

The Bull shrugs. “I thought he’d want to be home tonight, after the twenty-four hours he’s just had.”

 

“Wouldn’t you rather be, you know,” Cullen says, “with Bull?”

 

Dorian yawns. Cullen can see the space the broken tooth has left in his mouth. “We’re here now,” he says. “I just want to lie down. Somewhere nice and dark and quiet. And maybe have some of that really good fried rice you make when I wake up.”

 

“Okay,” Cullen says, uncertain. “If you’re sure.”

 

The Bull pulls Dorian in for a careful hug. Cullen looks away.


	7. Chapter 7

Cullen finds the Bull making himself at home on the couch in the living room. His legs are stretched out in front of him, and one arm is along the back of the couch. He looks very much like he’s made himself comfortable, which – Cullen isn’t supposed to find that infuriating. The guy fucking apologised to him for a situation where Cullen was very clearly the one in the wrong. He probably volunteers at a homeless shelter or with underprivileged youth or something equally selfless.

 

“Oh,” Cullen says. “Hello.”

 

“Cullen,” the Bull says over his shoulder. “Hey. How’s it going?”

 

“It’s, uh, fine,” Cullen says, “things are fine. Um. How are you?”

 

“I’m doing good,” the Bull says. “Long day at work, but things are looking up from here on out.” He grins at Cullen. Cullen can’t tell if it’s genuine or if the Bull is making fun of him. He gets the weirdest feeling that the Bull knows more about the situation than he’s letting on.

 

Dorian comes in from the kitchen, saving Cullen from his own social awkwardness. He’s dressed down and barefoot, but doesn’t look like he’s been recently ravaged; he’s carrying a bottle of beer and a full glass of wine. The area under his eyes is still a pale greenish yellow from his nose being broken, but his face is mostly back to normal, aside from his nose, which is very slightly crooked. “Cullen,” he says, “I hope you don’t mind us taking over the living room for tonight? There’s a movie Bull tells me I absolutely have to see, but he doesn’t have a television at his house.”

 

“I do,” the Bull tells Cullen, “but Dorian says it doesn’t count.”

 

“it doesn’t,” Dorian says, setting the beer bottle on the coffee table. He sits, not quite on top of the Iron Bull, but close enough, pressed up against his side under his arm. “It’s tiny, and it’s at least ten years old, and it must have cost less than a hundred when it was brand new.”

 

The Bull raises his eyebrows at Cullen, as if to say ‘this guy, huh?’ Like they’re sharing an inside joke.

 

“It’s fine,” Cullen says. “Go for it. Enjoy yourselves.” 

 

“You’re welcome to join us,” the Bull says. “It’s a very good movie.”

 

Cullen imagines sitting in the armchair, trying to watch a movie while Dorian and the Bull get handsy on the couch next to him. “No,” Cullen says, “no, I’m good. I have study to get done, anyway. Thank you.” And he makes his exit, hoping it comes across more ‘respectfully leaving my flatmate and his boyfriend to their date night’ and less ‘escaping from the room where the guy who made me realise I was bi is about to cuddle with some guy twice my size for the next two hours.’

 

He really does have study to do. Exams are looming ever closer, and he has revision to get done, terrified that after all the hard work he’s put in this semester he’s going to fail everything after all. He’s had the same feeling at the end of every other semester so far, and even though it never happens, and even though, objectively, he knows the same thing will probably happen this semester, he’s still stressing about it. If nothing else, getting an hour or two of revision in will get his anxiety to levels where he’ll be able to get to sleep at some point tonight.

 

He sets up his laptop at his desk, plugs his headphones in, in case noises he doesn’t want to hear start coming from the living room. Not that he thinks there will be. But it’s better safe than sorry.

 

He gets a decent amount of revision done. When he finally looks up, it’s almost eleven. It’s a hot night, even with the window open, and he feels kind of sticky and uncomfortable. He weighs up having a shower against just going to sleep sweaty and gross. On the one hand, he feels kind of weird having a shower with Dorian and his boyfriend on top of each other on the couch. On the other hand – going to sleep sweaty and gross.

 

He opens his door quietly to head across the hall to the bathroom. He can hear the Bull and Dorian talking. 

 

“-kind of mean,” the Bull says. “I’m just saying.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dorian says, sounding flippant. “It’s not like he should care.”

 

“Look. I’m not going to stop hanging out with you. But I don’t think he’s as straight as you think. Maybe you should rethink your whole –“

 

Cullen closes his door behind him and the Bull stops talking immediately, which, well. That just confirms that they’re talking about Cullen, doesn’t it? He gets to the bathroom and closes the door, the Iron Bull’s voice still running through his head, repeating the same sentence over and over.  _ I don’t think he’s as straight as you think. _ How the Iron Bull figured that out, Cullen has no fucking clue. He must be more obvious than he thinks he is.

 

He turns the shower on, adjusts the temperature so it’s just this side of cold.  _ Kind of mean. Maybe you should rethink your whole… _ what? What should Dorian rethink, that has something to do with Cullen and his being not straight?

 

He gets that familiar sinking feeling. He’s had the thought that Dorian has been playing a game trying to make him flustered, or uncomfortable – maybe it’s true? Even though he never feels flustered or uncomfortable when it’s just him and Dorian hanging out alone, even when Dorian flirts with him. And Dorian’s only ever crossed that line when he’s been drunk, or if he’s had someone over – and even then, Cullen gets the feeling all the awkwardness and upset that he felt around Dorian and his various conquests was the result of his little crush.

 

The shower is perfect after the heat of the day, just cool enough without being uncomfortably cold. So if it’s not a game – and it’s about him – what’s Dorian doing that’s  _ kind of mean? _ The Bull had said he wasn’t going to stop hanging out with Dorian – does that mean that whatever’s going on, it has the potential to ruin Dorian’s budding relationship with the Bull, enough that he had felt the need to reassure him? But he didn’t say anything about breaking up with him, just that he wouldn’t stop hanging out with him.

 

Cullen’s so confused. He wishes he hadn’t heard anything, because he knows that now, he’s going to be thinking about that conversation for days.  _ It’s not like he should care. _

 

Cullen sighs. Maybe he’s completely misunderstood – maybe they weren’t talking about him at all and he’s just making it up because he wants so badly for Dorian to have any kind of feelings about him. Maybe there’s another questionably straight guy Dorian is friends with that the Bull doesn’t approve of Dorian’s behaviour towards.

 

Yeah, that’s probably it. There’s someone else. Maybe it’s Varric. Cullen tries to imagine Varric being any kind of  uncomfortable in regards to Dorian or his own sexuality. Yeah, no, that doesn’t make any sense. Does Dorian even have any other straight friends? Blackwall? Is Cole straight?

 

Cullen shakes his head. He shouldn’t be overthinking this hard. It’s probably no big deal.

 

\---

 

A few days later, Cullen opens the door to find the Bull standing outside in dirty work boots and faded blue jeans. “Hey, Cullen.”

 

“The Iron Bull,” Cullen says. “I’m sorry, Dorian’s not here. I don’t know when he’s getting back.”

 

“I know,” the Bull says. “I actually came to talk to you.”

 

Cullen’s stomach drops. This is it. The Bull knows how he feels about Dorian, and he’s come to warn him off. What else would the Bull have to talk to him about? Dorian’s the only thing they  have in common.

 

“Um,” Cullen says.

 

“Don’t make that face,” the Bull says cheerfully. “I don’t bite. Unless I’m asked nicely.” And he does that weird blink/wink thing Cullen’s seen him do before.

 

“Um,” Cullen says, “come in, then.” He steps back, holding the door open for the Bull. “Do you, uh, want something to drink? Coffee? Tea? I think Dorian has some wine in the cupboard?”

 

“I’m good,” the Bull says, “unless you’re going for something yourself.”

 

Cullen’s definitely making himself a drink. He needs something to do with his hands so he doesn’t tear his cuticles to shreds while the Bull picks apart his relationship with Dorian. “I was just about to put the jug on, actually,” he says lamely.

 

“Well then. A coffee would be great. Thanks.”

 

“You can, uh, sit. If you want,” Cullen says, gesturing at the couch and the arm chair. “Or we could sit in the kitchen? Wherever you want…”

 

Everything in Cullen is screaming that something is wrong. The Bull is too calm, his tone too even – he’s not acting like a jealous boyfriend, and for some reason that makes Cullen worry more than if he was. Maybe he’s not going to get angry at Cullen at all – maybe he’s the kind to give Cullen some kind of guilt trip, make him feel even worse than he already does about his feelings for Dorian so he doesn’t try and start something. Not that he ever would. He compares himself to the Bull and comes out less than, every time.

 

The Bull follows him through to the kitchen and sits at their tiny breakfast table. He’s too big for the chair, can’t fit his knees under the table, so he shifts enough that he can sit with his legs straight out in front of him as Cullen nervously puts the jug on to boil, finds the coffee press, gets out two mugs. He almost laughs when he realises how small the mug will be in the Bull’s hand, wonders, inanely, if they should get some bigger mugs if the Bull’s going to be spending more time here.

 

“So,” the Bull says. Cullen sits opposite him with the coffee press and mugs between them like they’re some kind of barrier.

 

“So,” Cullen echoes. He’s itching to pick at his nails. His left leg is already shaking under the table, restless.

 

“Look,” says the Bull. “Dorian doesn’t want me telling you this, but if there’s one thing I hate, it’s unnecessary angst caused by shitty communication. And fuck knows if he’ll ever work up the balls to say this to you.”

 

Here it comes. Cullen pours coffee for the both of them, pulls his mug towards him like it will help at all.

 

“I know you have the wrong idea about my relationship with Dorian,” the Bull says. Cullen frowns.

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

“You have the wrong idea about me and Dorian,” the Bull says again. “And that’s not your fault at all. Dorian’s definitely not doing anything to disabuse you of the notion. I should have said something earlier, but Dorian’s just so damn convincing sometimes. You know how he can be.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Cullen says, “can you clarify? I’m not sure what you mean.”

 

“Me and Dorian aren’t together,” the Bull says. Cullen must pull some kind of face, because the Bull laughs, low and rumbling. “I’m not screwing with you. I know what it looks like – you saw us kissing, you know we’ve been spending a lot of time together; I don’t blame you for getting the wrong end of the stick. Especially with how Dorian’s been handling the whole thing.”

 

“You broke up?”

 

“No,” the Bull says, “we were never together. Just friends. Sure, we fucked a few times when we first met, but I’m not really into monogamy. I’m definitely not into being the guy people fuck in a failed attempt at getting over whoever they’d actually rather be with. Especially when I think they have a chance of being with that person.”

 

Cullen’s heart is beating hard in his chest, but in a different way than before. Before it was nauseating, a hurried pounding in his throat. Now it’s twisting his insides in an entirely different way, like some switch has been flicked from anxiety to anticipation. He doesn’t want to get the wrong idea, though – maybe it’s just wishful thinking that’s making the Bull’s words sound like what Cullen’s been hoping for all along.

 

“Dorian,” Cullen says hoarsely, and has to clear his throat. “You think Dorian… has feelings for me?”

 

“I  _ know  _ Dorian has feelings for you,” the Bull says. “We’ve spoken about this. At length. That, and he said your name when we were in bed once.”

 

Cullen’s heart stops. He can feel the beginnings of a blush starting hot in his cheeks. “Maker’s breath. You’re serious.”

 

“I am,” the Bull confirms. “I gotta say, I’m kind of surprised you haven’t worked it out yet. He’s not particularly subtle about it, going on about what a great boyfriend you’d make like he does.”

 

“He flirts with everyone,” Cullen says weakly.

 

“Sure he does. But not like that. You really think he goes around saying ‘you’re too good for me’ to every guy he meets? Have you seen the lengths he goes to convincing people of the size of his ego?”

 

“Why – why hasn’t he said anything?”

 

The Bull raises an eyebrow. “Well, he’s pretty damn certain that you’re straight, and you haven’t exactly cleared that up for him.”

 

“I didn’t know,” Cullen says. “I only figured it out a few weeks ago.”

 

“Well, now you know,” the Bull says. “And you know Dorian’s single. So you can get on that. You’re welcome.”

 

As if on cue, Cullen hears the apartment door open. A moment, and Dorian appears in the doorway of the kitchen, looking down at his phone. “Is that coffee I smell?” He looks up from his phone and blinks. “Oh! Bull! I didn’t know you were coming over.”

 

“I was just leaving, actually,” the Bull says, standing up. “I’m meeting my boys in half an hour. Call me, though.” He turns to Cullen and gives him a casual salute. “Cullen. Good talk.” And he leaves.

 

“What was that about?” Dorian asks, getting his own mug out of the cupboard.

 

“Nothing,” Cullen says automatically, but Dorian’s not going to believe that. And it’s not like he’s going to come up with some elaborate lie to cover up the fact that the Bull had come over to give him – what? Some kind of relationship pep talk? “Okay, no, not nothing. The Bull actually came over to tell me some things.”

 

Dorian pauses with the coffee press in one hand and his mug in the other. “Oh?” he says, and it’s probably supposed to come across as casual, but the fact that he’s practically frozen in place gives him away.

 

“Yeah,” Cullen says, and stands up. “He, uh. He wanted to clear up a couple of things.”

 

Dorian goes back to pouring his coffee, his expression the same careful blank one Cullen’s seen a thousand times before. “Like what?” he asks lightly.

 

“Like, you and him aren’t actually in a relationship.”

 

“I’d draw your attention to the fact that I never said we were,” Dorian sniffs.

 

“You never said you weren’t, either,” Cullen says. “Honestly, when he got here, I thought he was here to – to tell me to back off.”

 

“Back off?” Dorian says. “From what?”

 

“From you,” Cullen says. “I thought he might have noticed… I don’t know, the way I look at you. And I mean, he was right about that part.” He manages to laugh, a little high pitched and kind of strangled, but a laugh anyway. “He figured it out. I think he figured it out before I figured it out, even.”

 

“Cullen,” Dorian says slowly. “Would you please get to the point –“

 

So Cullen kisses him. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter! aaaand it's nothing but porn. sorry if you were expecting something else; you're welcome if this is what you were waiting for

This is impossible, Cullen thinks. This isn’t happening. But Dorian’s hands are solid and warm against his face, and Dorian’s mouth is hot against his, soft and sure. Cullen might be a little bit lost, a little bit hesitant, but Dorian knows exactly what he’s doing, anchoring Cullen to the moment with lips and tongue and hands.

 

All Cullen can hear is their shaky breaths, the quiet wet sounds of their kissing in the empty kitchen, his own pulse thundering in his head. Dorian makes a tiny pleased sound, like he’s come across something rare and wonderful. He trails a hand down the side of Cullen’s neck, down to rest against his chest, fingers curling a little in the fabric of Cullen’s shirt, and just that simple touch is enough to set Cullen’s blood on fire. He feels his hand tighten on the back of Dorian’s neck, his other hand going to Dorian’s waist, pulling Dorian closer as he surges forward to kiss him harder, hard enough that his lips tingle with the force of it.

 

Dorian stumbles a little, or maybe he just steps forward and Cullen’s the one who stumbles. He feels the backs of his thighs hit the kitchen table. Dorian’s tongue slides against his bottom lip and Cullen lets his mouth fall open, wanting to taste it. And Dorian’s hand is clenching tighter in the front of his shirt, tugging Cullen against him. Cullen feels heat kindling in his gut and almost laughs at the absurdity of it: a month ago he’d never even considered being attracted to men, and now here he is, not just kissing Dorian but letting himself be kissed by Dorian.

 

Dorian sucks at Cullen’s lip and Cullen’s breath catches in his throat. Dorian bites down, and Cullen hears himself make a low sound in the back of his throat, feels his fingers twitch where he’s holding on to Dorian. It’s been so long since he’s kissed anyone like this – so long since he’s kissed anyone at all. Evie was the last person, and it was different with her: they were friends, they were attracted to each other, but there were never any kind of romantic feelings between them. Even at the end when Evie had told him it was getting too serious for her, Cullen didn’t feel anything more than friendship towards her.

 

He can feel his cock beginning to stir. And this is the part where he should start to panic, right? He should shove Dorian away from him and tell him sorry, but all he wants to do is pull Dorian closer, feel his body against him. Any last doubts he had about being bisexual are entirely obliterated.

 

“Dorian,” he says, and he’s shocked at the sandpaper sound of his voice, the way it breaks on the second syllable. Then he has the audacity to feel disappointed when Dorian stops kissing him to  reply .

 

“Cullen,” Dorian says – oh, and Cullen hadn’t even considered what hearing Dorian say his name after being so thoroughly kissed would do to him. He makes another sound, this one almost (but not quite) a moan, and lets his head fall forward against Dorian’s shoulder. He laughs – a quiet chuckle at first that builds and builds until he’s laughing almost hysterically, and Dorian’s laughing too, still holding him close. “Why are we laughing?” Dorian asks breathlessly.

 

“I don’t know,” Cullen says. “It just seemed like the right thing to do.” He looks up at Dorian again, his silver eyes and perfect eyeliner, and he has to kiss him again, but he can’t stop smiling long enough to. He kisses him anyway, their smiles bumping together awkwardly, and he has to pull back to laugh again.

 

“Cullen,” Dorian says. “I’m not complaining, but – what’s happening?”

 

“I’m kissing you?” Cullen tries. “Or… I’m coming out, I guess? Or, I don’t know. I’m confessing my feelings for you?”

 

Dorian’s gone a little pink in the cheeks, and Cullen feels an odd surge of pride at making Dorian blush for once. He’s certain he’s blushing, too, feels hot in the face in that way he knows far too well, but – he’s never seen Dorian look like this for him. He bites his lip. “So..?”

 

“I thought you were straight,” Dorian says.

 

“I thought I was straight too,” Cullen tells him. “You were bringing guys over, and I was – I was so, so jealous. And I couldn’t even tell. I thought I was just being, I don’t know, I thought I’d maybe developed some kind of surprise homophobia or something. But I was jealous.”

 

Dorian laughs. “I wanted you to be jealous,” he admits. “I didn’t expect you would be, of course – but it was in the back of my mind, whenever I brought someone home. That you would see, and realise what you were missing out on. But that was just – just wishful thinking, on my part. I didn’t actually expect –“ He cuts himself off, kisses Cullen again, open mouthed and a little desperate. Cullen’s hands go to Dorian’s back, drawing him impossibly closer. He realises later than he should that Dorian has a thigh between his legs, and by pulling him closer, he’s inadvertently pressed his half hard cock into Dorian’s hip. He pulls away from the kiss, blushing.

 

“Um,” he says. “Sorry. I –“

 

Dorian’s smile is heated. Cullen feels a little lightheaded. “Well,” Dorian says, “hello.” He rolls his thigh deliberately, and Cullen chokes on his own breath, fingers twisting in Dorian’s shirt. Dorian does it again, and Cullen’s head drops back as his hips hitch without permission.

 

“ _ Dorian _ ,” he says helplessly.

 

“Yes,” Dorian hisses, and then his mouth is on Cullen’s again, kissing him hotly. Cullen’s mind is television static, just the feeling of Dorian against him and Dorian’s name and nothing else. He clutches at Dorian, swallows a moan, rubs up against him like he’s a virgin again, making out in the back seat of his first car after the high school dance.

 

“Fuck,” he says, “fuck, Dorian, wait –“

 

And Dorian wrenches himself away from Cullen, steps away entirely.

 

Cullen hears himself make a pathetic noise. “No,” he says, “not like that – I mean –“

 

“I’m sorry,” Dorian says. He slides his hands down Cullen’s arms slowly, leaving goosebumps in their wake, to take Cullen’s hands. “I got – somewhat carried away, there. I quite forgot this is all new to you.”

 

Cullen has to take a few deep breaths and steady himself. “No, I’m sorry. You weren’t the only one getting carried away.” He tugs on Dorian’s hands, pulling him closer – close enough to feel the heat of his body, not quite touching. With Cullen leaning against the kitchen table the way he is, Dorian’s got a couple of centimetres on him. He tilts his face upwards to kiss him.

 

“If you want to – keep  _ not _ getting carried away,” Dorian says, “you might want to… put a little space between us.”

 

“I suppose,” Cullen says. Dorian drops his hands, and steps back slowly. Cullen stands up properly. Now he’s not touching Dorian he’s not sure where his hands are supposed to go, or what to do with them.

 

Dorian is straightening his clothes, fixing his hair. Cullen watches his hands as they smooth down the wrinkles in his shirt. Dorian’s face is flushed and one corner of his mouth is quirked in a barely concealed smile, and his fingers are long and quick where they push his hair back into place, and the front of his slacks are tented, and Cullen’s never even kissed a guy before Dorian. He should take it slow, right?

 

Right?

 

“Fuck it,” Cullen growls, and grabs Dorian by the front of the shirt.

 

\---

 

In Dorian’s room, Cullen’s at a loss, unsure of what he’s supposed to do. He knows what he wants: to kiss Dorian, of course; to touch him, definitely. He wants to get him naked and breathless, wants to kiss the hollow of his throat. He wants to feel Dorian hard against him and to hear what noises he makes when he takes him in hand, or puts his mouth on him, or pushes into him. But it would be so easy to get it wrong.

 

Dorian crowds up against him and kisses him thoroughly, kisses the thoughts right out of his head. Before Cullen can put his hands on him, he shoves Cullen, hard, and Cullen falls back onto the bed, bouncing a little on the mattress. He laughs breathlessly. Dorian looks down at him with a wicked smirk on his face, his eyes sharp in a way Cullen’s only seen briefly before and never understood what it meant.

 

Something sparks hot and fluid in his gut.

 

Dorian climbs onto the bed, crawls over Cullen’s body to kiss him again, his knees on either side of Cullen’s waist and his hands beside Cullen’s head, close enough that Cullen can feel the heat radiating from him but not the weight of him. Cullen reaches for him, puts his hands on Dorian’s waist and pulls him against him, bites softly at his mouth.

 

He’s still more than half-hard from making out in the kitchen. Dorian settles against his lap and makes a happy noise against Cullen’s mouth. “Is this for me?”

 

“Obviously,” Cullen says, and he leans up to suck Dorian’s bottom lip into his mouth. Dorian makes another noise and rocks down against Cullen, one of his hands sliding up under Cullen’s t-shirt to rest against his abdomen, his fingers curling and relaxing, petting at Cullen’s lower stomach. And then further, up over his stomach, over his chest. He spreads his hand out over Cullen’s pectorals, his thumb brushing over Cullen’s nipple, and Cullen chokes on his own breath. There’s something he didn’t know about himself.

 

“Good?” Dorian asks. Cullen nods.

 

“Do it again.”

 

So Dorian does. Cullen didn’t know it could feel like this, each pass of Dorian’s thumb sending heat running up his spine. And then Dorian’s pushing his t-shirt up over his chest, leaving it caught around his armpits, and leaning down to lick the nipple his thumb isn’t currently toying with, and Cullen shudders, his breath rushing out of him all at once.

 

Dorian has his eyes closed as he works Cullen’s nipple with his tongue, drawing wet circles around it as his other hand rolls Cullen’s other nipple between thumb and forefinger. Cullen swallows, and swallows again, one of his hands going to the back of Dorian’s head, burying his fingers in his hair. He bites his lip to keep himself from making any embarrassing noises. It’s just his chest, for fuck’s sake. It shouldn’t be doing this much for him.

 

Dorian looks up at him, his pupils wide and dark, his mouth open, breath hot against Cullen’s chest. Cullen strokes his fingers through Dorian’s hair, and Dorian smiles lazily. He pushes at Cullen’s t-shirt where it’s tangled around the top of his chest. “I think this needs to come off.”

 

Cullen nods, and Dorian sits up to give him room to pull it off over his head. He throws it somewhere over the edge of the bed. Dorian is working on the buttons on his own shirt, quickly until he notices Cullen watching him. He smirks. “Looking for a show?” He slows all the way down, revealing his torso bit by bit.

 

“Dorian,” Cullen says, meaning for it to sound like a warning, but it just comes out sounding desperate.

 

Dorian’s smirk widens. “What?” he asks innocently, fingers on the last button.

 

Cullen sits up, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s waist to stop him from toppling over backwards, and kisses him hard. He grabs at the back of Dorian’s shirt and tugs at it, sliding it down off Dorian’s shoulders. He throws it in roughly the same direction as his own shirt.

 

Dorian’s skin is heated where it touches Cullen’s, which is everywhere. Dorian’s taller than Cullen by a couple of centimetres anyway, and kneeling over Cullen like he is gives him another good two inches on him, so he has to tilt his head down to kiss him, both hands on Cullen’s face. Cullen keeps his hands on Dorian’s back, pulling him against him, stroking between his shoulder blades. Not that he needs to pull Dorian closer – it seems like Dorian’s trying to climb inside his skin, pressing himself against Cullen like if he does it hard enough he might just fall into him.

 

And he grinds down against Cullen slowly, deliberately, letting him feel Dorian’s hard cock against his own through so many layers of fabric. Cullen’s breath hitches, and he rocks up, feeling that muted friction. He chases the sensation, and for a while, Dorian doesn’t seem inclined to stop him, moving against him like it’s the main event.

 

Cullen manages to get his hands between them, aiming at unbuttoning Dorian’s slacks; but he gets his hand in the right general direction and then Dorian rocks forward again, and Cullen gets distracted touching Dorian through his clothes, mapping the outline of his cock with his fingers. Dorian makes a low sound. “This is all very nice and all,” he murmurs in Cullen’s ear, “but let’s move things along, shall we?”

 

Cullen watches, rapt, as Dorian pushes his slacks down around his thighs, cups himself through his underwear and hums. Cullen can feel his mouth fill with saliva. And then Dorian slides his hand into his underwear and pulls himself out and Cullen hears himself make an embarrassing strangled noise at the sight.

 

Dorian reaches out and takes Cullen’s hand, guides it to wrap around his cock, and moans. Cullen licks his lips, gives Dorian an experimental stroke. How hard can it be? He’s been doing it to himself his entire life. So he does what he likes – strokes him nice and slow, thumbs at the head of his cock at each pass, and Dorian moves with him, thrusting into Cullen’s hand.

 

Cullen realises he’s just been staring at Dorian’s dick, watching his hand moving on it, so he tears his eyes away to look at Dorian’s face. And Dorian’s face – his lips parted, his skin flushed, his eyes dark as he looks down at where Cullen’s hand is on him. And he looks up and his eyes meet Cullen’s, and he surges forward to kiss him again, messy and open mouthed.

 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he says when he pulls away, and Cullen is inclined to agree. Dorian moves from where he was sitting straddling Cullen’s hips, pulls his pants off entirely while Cullen unbuttons his jeans and slides them down over his hips. Dorian helps tug them off the rest of the way, and then they’re both naked, and hard, and looking at each other like they can’t look away.

 

“Lie down,” Dorian tells him. Cullen obeys, almost automatically.

 

Dorian smiles darkly and leans to kiss his mouth, then his jaw, then his neck; he licks down the center of Cullen’s chest, bites at his hip. Cullen watches him, mute, as he mouths wetly at the top of one thigh. Dorian grins up at him, curls his fingers around the base of Cullen’s dick, and Cullen sucks in a sudden breath.

 

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Dorian says.

 

“Just – just going with the flow, I guess,” Cullen says hoarsely.

 

“Mm,” Dorian hums. He dips his head to kiss the crease of Cullen’s thigh. “That’s all very well and good. But how am I supposed to know what you want if you stay silent?”

 

“I – I want  _ you _ ,” Cullen says.

 

“Well, yes,” Dorian says, and he strokes his hand slowly up Cullen’s cock, smooths his thumb over the tip. “But what do you want from me?”

 

Cullen shakes his head helplessly. “I don’t know,” he says, “I don’t – I haven’t –“

 

“You can’t tell me you haven’t  _ thought _ about it,” Dorian says. “What do you think about, when you think about me and touch yourself?”

 

You’ve got an awfully high opinion of yourself, Cullen does not say, because it’s true – he’s hardly touched himself at all without thinking about Dorian, since before he even knew he wanted him. He opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t find the words, stupidly embarrassed for a naked guy with a mouth so close to his cock.

 

“Do you think about my hands?” Dorian asks, his voice low.

 

Cullen nods. “Yes,” he says, “yeah,” and Dorian smiles beatifically at him, strokes Cullen a little faster.

 

“Do you think about my mouth?” Dorian says, his breath ghosting over Cullen’s cock.

 

“Yes,” Cullen hisses, and Dorian rewards him by licking a flat stripe up the underside of his dick. “Oh, Maker,” Cullen whispers when Dorian flicks his tongue over the tip, and, “fuck,” when Dorian wraps his lips around the head and sucks.

 

Dorian watches him as he slides his mouth down Cullen’s cock, until Cullen can’t take it, and tosses his head back to stare open mouthed at the ceiling. Dorian’s mouth is so good, wet and hot, and he clearly knows what he’s doing; clearly enjoys it, from the tiny noises he’s making. Cullen clutches at the sheets. He focuses on keeping his hips flat and not thrusting up into Dorian’s mouth.

 

Dorian hums around him, and Cullen’s legs are shaking with the effort of holding back. His fingers twist desperately in the sheets, and Dorian’s tongue presses firm against the underside of his cock, his hand a loose fist around the base. He sinks lower, until his lips meet his fingers, until Cullen can feel the resistance of his throat.

 

“Fuck,” Cullen says, “fuck, Dorian,” and Dorian pulls off of Cullen’s cock with a wet pop.

 

He wipes the spit from his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, and even that small gesture makes Cullen’s dick twitch. “The way I see it,” Dorian says, and Maker, his voice is fucking  _ wrecked _ , “we have a few options here. Option one: I stay down here, and I suck you until you come, and then you do the same for me.” That sounds like a very good option to Cullen right now, the best option, and he opens his mouth to agree, but Dorian reaches up to press his fingers to Cullen’s lips to quiet him.

 

“Option two,” Dorian says. “I open you up with my fingers, and I fuck you until we both come. Although, you’ve been straight your whole life – I think you’re probably not ready for that, yet.” And Cullen, in the haze of arousal, thinks no, he wants it, he wants everything Dorian will give to him. Wants to try things he’s never even thought of before.

 

Dorian continues. “Option three: I open  _ myself _ up with my fingers, and I climb on top of you, and I ride you until we both come. So,” he says, pulling his hand away from Cullen’s mouth and trailing it down his chest, “what do you think?”

 

Cullen opens his mouth to speak and instead makes a helpless, turned on sound that is too close to a whine for him to be comfortable. Dorian presses his face against Cullen’s hip and laughs quietly into his skin.

 

“I,” Cullen pants, “I want – I want, I don’t know, I want –“

 

“You want?” Dorian prompts.

 

“I don’t know,” Cullen groans. “I just  _ want _ , Dorian, please.”

 

“Hmm,” Dorian says, crawling up Cullen’s body to lie beside him, one hand light on his cock, teasing. “Well. I think I know what you want. I think you want to be inside me.”

 

“Yes,” Cullen breathes, “yes, that – that sounds good, that sounds perfect.”

 

“Mm,” Dorian says, “I do have the best ideas, don’t I?”

 

Dorian reaches for his bedside table, retrieves a bottle of lube and a condom, depositing both on Cullen’s bare chest. He slides on leg across Cullen’s thighs, shifts so he’s straddling him, leans down to kiss him. “Pay attention,” Dorian whispers against Cullen’s lips. “There will be a test later.”

 

Cullen laughs, breathless and happy. He cuts himself off suddenly when Dorian sits up tall and drizzles lube across three of his own fingers, reaches behind himself with his legs spread a little further than the width of Cullen’s thighs demands of him. 

 

Cullen watches as he slowly slides one finger inside himself, sighing. He tilts his hips, using his free hand against Cullen’s chest to steady himself, fucks himself slowly with one finger, then two.

 

Cullen swallows. “That… does that feel good?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Dorian says quietly.

 

“Can… can I?”

 

Dorian smiles brilliantly at him. “Oh, I don’t know. If you want.”

 

“I do,” Cullen says earnestly. “I just – you’ll tell me if I’m doing it wrong?”

 

“Of course,” Dorian says.

 

Cullen coats two fingers in lube and reaches between Dorian’s legs. He touches, gently, where Dorian’s fingers disappear inside himself, strokes at his taint, and where his ass is stretched around his fingers. Dorian’s breath stutters. Cullen bites his lip, and presses, lightly at first, then firmer, until the tip of his finger slips inside.

 

“Keep going,” Dorian says breathlessly, so Cullen does. He slides his finger in further, until his knuckles are pressed against Dorian’s skin. He’s so hot inside, tight in a different way than Cullen is used to with women. “Good,” Dorian says, “that’s good,” and he slides his own fingers out, wipes them off on Cullen’s hip, which Cullen thinks distantly should be gross.

 

“Another,” Dorian says, “go on.” Cullen adds a second finger, watching Dorian’s face for any trace of discomfort, finding nothing but that perfect smile. He slides his fingers out halfway, then back in, still slow. 

 

“You’re acting like I’m the one who’s never done this before,” Dorian tells him.

 

“I just don’t want to hurt you.”

 

Dorian makes an odd noise Cullen hasn’t heard before, a kind of surprised half-laugh. “Don’t worry,” Dorian says. “I’ll let you know if you do. You can move your fingers a bit more, though.”

 

Cullen does, sliding them into Dorian again and again. He curls his fingers a little like he would if he were fingering a woman, presses against the wall of Dorian’s ass as he slides out. Dorian makes a pleased sound. “Yes,” he says, “like that, that’s good.”

 

Dorian’s running commentary combined with the feeling of his ass tight around Cullen’s fingers is going straight to Cullen’s cock. He thinks maybe he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, pre-come beading at the tip of his dick.

 

“Another, please,” Dorian says. “Move – move your fingers, yes, like that –“ and he moans, low and long. “Fuck, Cullen –“

 

Cullen can’t stop looking at Dorian’s face, the flush slowly spreading down his neck, his wide, glazed eyes and his teeth digging into his bottom lip. “Dorian,” he says, “Maker, Dorian, you’re so… you’re so –“

 

He must do something very right on his next thrust in, because Dorian goes rigid for a moment, tight around his fingers, and moans loudly, his head falling backwards. “Yes,” he whispers, “yes, Cullen, that’s it, right there,” so Cullen does it again, and is rewarded by Dorian practically sobbing, pushing back against him.

 

“Maker,” Cullen says reverently. He needs to have his mouth on Dorian immediately, pushes himself upright and bites at Dorian’s chest, sucks a bruise into his skin, licks over it. Dorian’s breath is coming fast, and he’s moving against Cullen’s hand – Cullen hardly needs to do anything, like this; could just hold his hand still and watch Dorian fuck himself on it, and Maker, there’s an idea. He files the image away for later.

 

“Cullen,” Dorian says, “Cullen, now, you can fuck me now,” and Cullen groans.

 

He pulls his slick fingers out of Dorian’s hole, wipes them off on the sheets; fumbles with the condom, fingers slipping on the foil.

 

“Here,” Dorian says, “let me,” and he takes the condom from Cullen, tears the packet open on the first try. And then his hand is on Cullen’s dick, stroking firmly, twice, three times, before he rolls the condom onto him.

 

Dorian pours a generous amount of lube into the palm of his hand, slicks Cullen’s cock with it, and wipes the rest on Cullen again, even though the sheets are already ruined. Cullen can’t find it in himself to mind.

 

Dorian has one hand around the base of Cullen’s cock, the other one still braced against his chest, and he positions himself over Cullen, breathing hard. He looks down at Cullen, and Cullen looks back up at him, and Dorian says, “Ready?” like Cullen’s the one about to get fucked.

 

Cullen laughs disbelievingly. “Yes, Dorian, I’m ready, come on!”

 

Dorian smiles widely. He presses the head of Cullen’s cock against his hole, and for a moment, Cullen thinks he’s not going to fit, but then – then Dorian’s opening around him, sinking down on him until his whole cock is enveloped in that tight heat. He moans, and Dorian’s gasping, and his hands fly to Dorian’s hips.

 

“Fuck,” Cullen says intelligently. “Tight.”

 

“Mmm,” Dorian hums, and he circles his hips a little, not really moving, just feeling Cullen inside him.

 

Cullen is shaking with the effort of holding back. “Dorian,” he says, “Dorian, Dorian –“

 

“Yes,” Dorian says, and starts to move, pulling halfway off Cullen’s cock and sinking back down, starting a slow rhythm. He’s so tight around Cullen, so hot, and Cullen can barely do more than gape at the ceiling and clutch at Dorian’s hips and push his own hips up in short thrusts, meeting Dorian on the down stroke. “Oh,” Dorian says, “oh, that’s good,” and Cullen has to pull him down to kiss him hard, has to lick into his mouth as he thrusts up into him.

 

Dorian pulls back, straightens up and starts to ride Cullen in earnest, his thighs working as he moves, rocking his hips down when he bottoms out to get that little bit more inside him. Cullen’s gasping, clinging to Dorian, and Dorian’s making such gorgeous sounds, low moans and breathy cut-off noises. Cullen pulls Dorian down against him, fucks up into that sweet tightness, feeling the heat in his gut spark and build.

 

Dorian looks so good above him, his cock hard and bouncing against his stomach, muscles shifting under brown skin. His head is tossed back, and sweat drips down the long line of his throat. Cullen wants to lick it off. His hair is a mess, spiked with sweat and sticking to his forehead, and Cullen feels a perverse sort of glee that Dorian’s hair is in such a state because of him, that Dorian doesn’t care and it’s because of  _ him _ .

 

He’s so close already. He knows, if he were to look at himself, he would be pink all the way down his chest. He can feel his abdominal muscles tightening, can’t quite catch his breath. “Dorian,” he says desperately, “I can’t – you feel so good, fuck, I’m not gonna last –“

 

Dorian moans in reply, quickening on top of him, and Cullen has just enough presence of mind to reach down and wrap a hand around Dorian’s dick, jerking him off roughly in time with his thrusts. And then Dorian leans down and bites Cullen’s lip  _ hard _ , and Cullen is coming, shaking and crying out as his hips jerk.

 

“Fuck,” Dorian chokes out, and bats Cullen’s hand away from his cock, jerks himself off fast, his hand almost a blur; and it’s not even thirty seconds before he’s coming too, spilling over Cullen’s stomach, his ass pulsing around Cullen in a way that would make him come instantly if he hadn’t already.

 

Dorian moans and slumps forward onto Cullen, burying his face in Cullen’s neck. Their slick skin sticks together. Cullen pets at Dorian’s back absentmindedly, still trying to catch his breath.

 

After a few minutes, Dorian rolls off onto his back on the mattress. “Well,” he says. “That was. Mmm.” Cullen looks over at him. Dorian’s eyes are closed, and he’s smiling faintly.

 

“You liked it?” Cullen says, uncertain.

 

“Mm hm,” Dorian says. “Very much. Excellent first try. A+. Gold star. All that.”

 

Cullen laughs, and he reaches out to take Dorian’s hand. Dorian looks at him, surprised.

 

“Sorry,” Cullen says quickly. “Should I – uh, do you not…”

 

“No, no,” Dorian says. “I just… wasn’t sure. That’s all.” He threads his fingers through Cullen’s. “Most straight guys I sleep with don’t want to… hold hands, or cuddle, or what have you. They just want to get it out of their system, and never talk about it again.”

 

“Told you,” Cullen says, “I’m not that straight.” He yawns. “Pretty sure that’s your fault, though. Don’t think I’m going to get you out of my system anytime soon.”

 

There’s a long pause where Cullen would usually feel anxious, but Dorian squeezes his hand. “I’m not sorry,” he says.

 

“Good,” Cullen says. “Neither am I.”

 

For once in his life, Cullen has no trouble finding sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this fic is the one that got me out of my not-writing rut. thanks for reading this. i know it's not like, the best writing or the best plotting or the best characterisation but it's the first thing that i've managed to finish in the longest time so it's Excellent. thank you SO MUCH for all your kudos & comments, every single one meant Very much to me even if i'm more anxious than cullen in this fic and couldn't really reply to many of them. i love you!!


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